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Anne Haehl

 

Anne Haehl

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Anne Haehl has lived (mostly) in Kansas since the age of 7.  She and her husband, Earl, have raised two Jayhawks, a  son and a  daughter.  A graduate of KU, she is  a  storyteller as well as a poet and a peace activist.

 

Haehl's poety has appeared in: I-70 Review, Coal City Review, Studio:  a journal of Christians writing, Potpourri, Bueno, Midday Moon, Chiron Review, Sunflower Petals, Moon Reader, Fugue and other publications

 

Her chapbook, Daughter and Mother was published by Snark Publishing, 2004.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 


Carhenge

 

Cars don’t speak, but

the grills look like mouths—

on the old Dodge, puckered

on the Edsel,

angry on the Lincoln;

and the headlights, eyes,

even though painted white,

seem to ask

why

they’re here, why some

are set in the ground

straight up, and others

balanced across two upright

form a curious arch.

 

Some, half buried

struggle to get out,

trying to return

to the nearby highway, where a man says,

“Welcome

to Carhenge.”

 

Pushing  back

the straw hat

from his thin, gray hair,

he tells,  “See” pointing--

“the El Dorado,

and the Explorer up there,

and the Falcon.,

I sold them new.”

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Changeling:  to My Husband

 

My parents sadly missed

the child the Faery Folk had stolen,

leaving behind their discard,

the oddling,

me.

 

Mother often glanced  at the replacement

in vague disappointment, but

my father screamed

at the usurper

of his child’s cradle.

 

Who can imagine then,

who can believe the wonder—

all history turned upside-down--

in your arms

I belonged.

 

 

 


From Cambodia

 

The people I live with hate to leave.

 

They know their daughter so sick, but

afraid the Khmer Rouge kill them

if they stay with her.

 

Also, their rule. You stay home

don’t work

don’t eat.

Maybe they work they can bring her

a little rice.

 

They come back, 

find her dead.

 

My son Souvath,

has the same symptoms—

has dysentery.

I beg permission

take him to the hospital.

This man from the Khmer Rouge

doesn’t give it.

 

I go to the hospital anyway.

 

There I can’t get in—no papers.

So I go another way—

crawl under the barbed wire.

The nurse gives me medicine.

The next day

I do it again.

 

Finally, a woman says,

“I am leaving.

Take my bed.”

 

These people in the hospital

must work one week wards,

one week kitchen,

one week fields.

They don’t know patients.

 

When Souvath better

we go home.

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 On the Factory Floor

 

Breathing a tang of nitric acid,

zinc oxide powder

coats my tongue,

warmed by the flavor

of dust.

 

Leaning over

the icy water fountain­-

 

Keep your plums

Doctor Williams!

 

All poetry on this page
Copyright
©
by Anne Haehl 2007 

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