Annie Robertson has fallen down in about ten of Italy’s best cities and remembers each by their souvenir scars. She has wandered graveyards in Prague, become bosom buddies with Schiele and Klimt in Vienna, and talked to ghosts in the catacombs in the belly of a mountain in Salzburg. She has lived inside of Greyhound buses going back and forth down the coast between life and love. You may find her work in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.
I’d been thinking about leaving. I’d been thinking how there’s something about out here. Before long it’s a new January and you’re hungover with a heartache for a man you won’t see for several years until he pops up on that very popular, critically-acclaimed sitcom with that actress you learned to like, then hate, then feign indifference abou
The leak in your breathing/ tube makes a cartoon squeak./ It takes two nurses, silent/ as nuns, to place you/ in my arms...
If I have already/ gone insane/ but I want to get/ crazier yet,/ what’s my move?/ Go outsane?
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