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Anna Milan
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the poet
Currently based in Hertfordshire, England, Anna Milan has had her poetry featured in various publications – Butcher’s Dog, Under the Radar, Eye Flash Poetry, Black Bough Poetry and Ink Sweat & Tears among these.
the poems
The wind is not
yet awake
Patience, eyas. The wind is not yet awake.
Wait for its breath to rise and turn
till you can scoop the air
under pointed wing.
Your eyes are not windows, but walls.
Enamelled with anger,
watchful, siege-ready; mistrust
kept safe behind ashlar and buttress.
Although the frosts snap at your feather buds
the spathes will grow curved and strong.
When the barbs lock firm to collar the wind
then, eyas, we’ll be ready to begin.
Eyas: a young hawk; especially (in falconry) an unfledged
nestling taken from the nest for training
money & sex
I’m doing it for me she says & though in a way that’s true
she speaks the softened vowels of her great grandma
who heaved out the bastard child of the earl of bath
& wrecked her voice in the process
so forever & ever after it had an echo
of the master’s tenor like the bass notes
below the hymn’s melody
in the estate chapel on the big hill
& when she’s in those killer heels doing it for her I can’t help
but wonder how many male choirs are in the harmonics
singing yes yes that’s my girl
you don’t answer to god or man
do you what a chance to write yourself
your own sweet song girl
House guests
My mother drew cedillas in lipstick on the mirrors, scrubbed the skirting boards
clean, and left stands of autumn grasses growing right up against the patio doors.
Afterwards, my sister came to throw wet leaves at the ceiling and do handstands in the kitchen.
The first man I loved told me a lady never bares her feet until she is alone in her room. He always turned off the light with his thumb before he shut the door.
The next one, a man with grey curls and eyes saddened by the sea, hammered nails into a newly decorated wall to put up a shelf, and heaped sand onto it in restless piles.
Others roam about outside, waiting to come in.
Someone once said to me, In the end, aren’t we all just guests in someone else’s house? I think it’s true, but these days, I am more careful about letting people touch the walls.
Publishing credits
The wind is not yet awake: Atrium
money & sex: Butcher’s Dog (Issue 16)
House guests: Under The Radar (Issue 25)
S h a r e