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Selection of poetry


Rejoice in my healing you 

lick my sore finger, my sweet blood,

pricked by pieces of metal strings,

rejoice in my breathing and 

restring me, a little song 


You buzz in my bones and 

we’re strumming secret sounds and

everyone wants to hear Free Bird and

all poets die sour screaming 

you’ll hear me singing below the ground 


Collective belt into sugared dreamworld

love- I knew it, love, I knew it, and 

each time a sliver of you floats down

I catch you midair in my teeth and

breathe in as hard as I can shout 

Refrigerator Magnets 

Flame quivers from sigh, I wish

each time you burst into mind 

is a future guaranteed, run fresh stitch,

weave in tightly, with you, aligned. 

Keep these, for me, I’ll be away 

[I pray for France’s fall, constantly]

they deserve to be cold, on display

not under-bed-shoebox, ten


The soft rose risen under your eyes so

perfectly - flush matches the right most

flea market magnet, with you I sew 

a string of places we went, will go.

For now, this fall, ten it will remain 

Burn while I wait, the promise they contain. 

I’ll hold you 


while the train


             My inner arms

cover your hands 

              curled-over knuckles

plugging your ears – 


Let me absorb

the static, 

Let me steal

your pain. 


I want all of you

to flow into me 

through the squeeze of

               our hands 

as we race away

from the shaking

tracks; the threat

of the oncoming




To specify: 

I’m story-sinking-swim

and I steal your hazel


tread, misuse your fumble fins. 


Sorry, let me just say –

This river writes stories

while I sing; if I may 

float soggy paper alle-gory. 


I’m broken finger backwards 

but, let me clarify: 

Numbered wax sticks warn 

me fragile bones and cloudy eye. 


Zip pocket tight tonight, 

I know a tidal wave, she’s no singer. 

But listen: I might

sink if you do,

point, jeer,


They’re There 


Do you think you know what the trees know? 

Will they catch you – now, then I think of that private 

peach colored mound and I didn’t need or want it, suppose

I liked the taste, better than yours, but who’s to preach

about taste when all that smells is fermented stalling - 

when you fall back into the twigs my arms? They’re there,

but they aren’t thick enough to console, to hear me calling

please earth please spin quicker I can’t feel it at all, I swear

sometimes love needs to spin slower to feel anything, 

like when I tearless mope so that feeling lasts longer,

longing for wind, not this pathetic drift earth but wind

to carry your trace home, well I want to be belonging 

in your darting gaze, to be your home even if my nose hairs

twinge at some stink- unlike you I dare a long-enough stare. 

Jackie Michaud - Miami University, Ohio Senior Psychology and Art Therapy major and Creative Writing minor Concentrations in psychopathology and poetry.

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