All We Didn't Know We Didn't Know

That we were all of us saints of something. That
birds saw our hair in the wind, tossing, and thought
home. All that floss and twine and straw no comparison.
That all of us wanted to be lost in a moment, in it
in a field, or on a rough beach, sea rocks bruising
our heels. That a stone bruise was a mark of love,
a kiss. Like walking on a pebble sent down from Jesus.
We dreamed of him, hugging our pillows—
all that blasphemy and sacrilege didn't count
once the lights were out. That apocalypse in Greek
simply means to unveil. That we were always almost ready
to reveal something about ourselves, some yellow fish
swimming towards the deep faster than our prayers
could carry him.

Anna Lowe Weber, originally from Louisiana, currently lives in Alabama where she teaches creative writing at the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Her work has previously appeared in such magazines as the Iowa Review, the Colorado Review, and Rattle, where a recent poem was chosen as a Rattle Poetry Prize finalist. (

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761