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
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
plugging your ears –
Let me absorb
Let me steal
I want all of you
to flow into me
through the squeeze of
as we race away
from the shaking
tracks; the threat
of the oncoming
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,
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.