Anna DeWine

Stories from Anna DeWine

Friday, January 17th, 2014


for Sylvia Plath


Mother is dressing me

in her Sixties'

yellow taffeta prom dress

overlay in Chantilly lace.

Now, a black velvet hat

with a flower on the side.

It's drooping over

my ears and eyes.

I'm cramming my toes

inside these pointed-toe slippers.

Saturday, April 27th, 2013

The first time Eloise got drunk was at her mother’s tea party.

“Eloise, did you dip the strawberries?”

“Yes, Mother, yesterday.” A few minutes passed in anxious silence.

“Eloise, taste this jam.”

She licked the spoon, seedy and red. “Tastes good to me.”

The timer dinged, and her mother quickly pulled the tray of scones out of the oven.

“Eloise, where are the cucumber sandwiches?!”

“Mother, they’re on the table already.”


“Will you go pick some hydrangeas -- the purple ones -- and put them in the vase?”


Eloise walked outside onto the wrap-around porch, scissors in hand, and made her way down the steps onto the plush grass. She clipped the biggest bloom she could find, and a few contending ones around it. They drooped in the heat. Her heels sunk in the ground. She looked across the yard to the narrow road, and to the cornfields threatening to take it over. She thought she would rather walk barefoot down the road of bubbling tar, or into the maze of corn higher than her head, than to return to the house.

Thursday, December 6th, 2012




Grandpa treasured little things:

A rusty Folgers can

in which he dropped nails

one by one.

A hammer with a broken handle

that he rescued from a stranger's garage

just to recreate.

A scrap of knotty wood

worried by knobby fingers.