ABOUT Liz Ahl:

Liz Ahl’s chapbook, A Thirst That’s Partly Mine, won the 2008 Slapering Hol Press chapbook contest. Her poetry has also appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Women’s Review of Books, Alimentum, North American Review, and other literary journals. Anthologies that feature her work include Red, White and Blues: Poets on the Promise of America (University of Iowa Press, 2004), Mischief, Caprice, and Other Poetic Strategies (Red Hen Press, 2004), and Like Thunder: Poets Respond to Violence (University of Iowa Press, 2002). A limited edition collection of her poetry, On The Avenue of Eternal Peace, was designed and printed by Joe Ruffo (Lyra Press) and bound by Denise Brady. Ahl’s interests as a poet include performance, collaboration, and cross-disciplinary work (letterpress printing, working with musicians, dancers and visual artists). Her work has been set to original symphonic music, combined with dance choreography, and riffed to improvisational jazz. She has read in galleries in collaboration with thematic visual art shows and has published broadsides and chapbooks of both her own work and the work of others. She lives in New Hampshire where she teaches writing at Plymouth State University.


Pecan Grove Press

Luck
by Liz Ahl

ISBN: 978-1-931247-75-7

$8

“Liz Ahl isn’t afraid to stand still and bear witness to the tick of daylight creeping across the yard, taking infinite pleasure in the quotidian thing, but she is also not afraid to stand up and dance, to bring us the full-throated joy of the take-no-prisoners, talk-to-the-hand-cause-the-girl-ain’t-listenin’ funk. These poems resurrect our faith in a kaleidoscopic world of old gamblers and sultry perennials, Gideons and skaterboys, abandoned toys and girls luminous with guitars. Luck has nothing to do with it; Liz Ahl is a poet of great skill and grace.”
—Ann Hudson, author of The Armillary Sphere

A Dozen Brown Eggs from a Friend

The eggs of your childhood
were white, politely oblong,
and tended by your mother
whose kitchen was scrubbed spotless,
who hung an oven-mitt by the oven
solely for show – the real one,
used to handle hot pyrex casseroles,
was grimy and hidden in a drawer.

Though she was raised on venison and rabbit
and chickens her own mother kept, killed, plucked,
you know these brown and speckled eggs
will worry her with their irregularities—
variations on tan, different sizes.
These are the eggs of her childhood,
the eggs she left in the sticks,
the eggs of chaos and poverty,
of small-town gossip and recrimination;
the eggs she had to collect,
claustrophobic and elbow deep
in stench and screeching and feathers.

She will not eat these eggs.

 

 

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