Stevie Nicks by Ann Robinson

Stevie Nicks

 

Under the strobes
guitar hands, neon blonde.

She sings like a forty-year-old child,
wears a witch’s cape.

Tosses back her jukebox tenor
to the audience.

We stone up,
all the freaks in the back row, breathless.

Where was I going before
I heard her music?

Back when
the world was hunger,
and we only took.


Ann Robinson
Ann Robinson’s work has appeared in American Literary Review, Connecticut Review, Fourteen Hills, Hiram, Poet Lore, Spoon River Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Whiskey Island Review among others. Her poetry book Stone Window, by Bark for Me Publications, came out in January of this year. Retired from 25 years of Civil Service in the Criminal Department, she currently runs a farming operation with her sister in Arkansas.

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