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