Anne Higgins

Anne Higgins grew up in West Chester, Pennsylvania. She teaches English at Mount Saint Mary’s University in Emmitsburg Maryland. She is a member of the Daughters of Charity, and is a graduate of Saint Joseph College, Emmitsburg, the Johns HopkinsUniversity, and the Washington Theological Union. She has had about 100 poems published, inYankee, Commonweal, Spirituality and Health,
the Melic Review, the Centrifugal Eye, and a variety of small magazines. She has given poetry readings at local bookstores and colleges, and was invited to give a reading at the Art and Soul Conference at Baylor Universityin February of 2001, and at the Calvin College Festival of Faith and Writing in 2002. Garrison Keillor has read two of her poems on his radio show “The Writers Almanac.”

She has published six books of poetry: At the Year’s Elbow, Mellen Poetry Press 2000;  Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky,  Plain View Press 2007; Pick It Up and Read, a chapbook from Finishing Line Press 2008; How the Hand Behaves, a chapbook from Finishing Line  2009; Digging for God, from Wipf and Stock Publishers 2010; and Vexed Questions,  Aldrich Press 2013.

All of these books are available on Amazon.

Anne has a blog called “Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky.” The address is  http://annesbirdpoems.blogspot.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cherry Tomatoes

Suddenly it is August again, so hot,
breathless heat.
I sit on the ground
in the garden of Carmel,
picking ripe cherry tomatoes
and eating them.
They are so ripe that the skin is split,
so warm and sweet
from the attentions of the sun,
the juice bursts in my mouth,
an ecstatic taste,
and I feel that I am in the mouth of summer,
sloshing in the saliva of August.
Hummingbirds halo me there,
in the great green silence,
and my own bursting heart
splits me with life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Father, at 92

At two o’clock today he declared
“Well, it’s time to go.”
Where?” I asked
Where?” my blind and deaf mother asked.
“Home.”
”But you are home.” we said.
“You’ve been living here eight years,” I said.
“since you were eighty-four.”

My father, now unsteady on your feet,
you don’t remember your location, your wallet, your keys,
but you do remember
when I ran out in front of 
oncoming traffic one day,
after kindergarten. 
You were on the other side of the street.
You said it was because I was
already nearsighted
and no one knew it yet.
I recall
it was because
I didn’t notice the oncoming traffic –
All I saw was you,
YOU, I saw clearly,
and still do,
standing on the other side of the street,
waiting for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Georgia O’Keeffe Looks 
    Over Her Shoulder

Just when she thinks she’s painted all her fear,
When bleached skulls turn to poppies red as lust,
The sound of something wild attracts her ear.
Black jacket, white soft collar curving near
the place where desert sunset turns to rust
awakens in that neck a prickling fear.
 
The haunches of dead lovers gleam as clear
in skulls as in the orchid’s velvet crust.
Dry rattling of bone curls back her ear.
 
Her upswept silken hair declares the year
in shades of gray and tortoise brown as dust
just when she thought she’d painted all her fear.
 
Her thin pink pearl of seashell curves to hear
the desert’s voice, more fierce, more dry than just
as three fine wrinkles flow down from her ear.
 
Such gaunt grace turns her, luscious and severe,
containing bones and orchids, fruit and crust!
Just when she thinks she’s painted all her fear,
the sound of something wild attracts her ear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~