Pat Anthony writes from the rural Midwest finding inspiration, in the soil’s rugged furrows and  the faces of those working it. She frequently uses the land as lens while she mines characters, including herself, to explore relationships as a means to heal and survive living with bi-polar disorder. Former poetry editor of Potpourri (out of print) she holds an MA in Humanities Literature from Cal State, among others, teaching English, Spanish, and Special Education until her recent retirement. Writing and publishing since University days, she believes in poeming daily, editing furiously and scrabbling for honesty no matter the cost. She has work published or forthcoming in Cholla Needles, Heron Tree, Third Wednesday, Tipton Review, Passager, Snakeskin, and Open Minds Quarterly, among others.

I’ve checked out

                this business
                peas in a pod

studied endless shells 
                filled with green shapes

not true that they are alike
                even in their greenness

as varied as a fat lime
                a lettuce leaf,
                the random katydid

shelling for hours  I’ve thumbed
                fat squares, pale
                ovals crowded ten 
                to the pod 

                runts in between giants
                shouldering for moisture and swell
                green olives swollen in martinis

I wonder about phrases
                we’ve learned to lean on

how we mash
                language
                into the not
                and never when

we should speak like peas