They stood waiting to cross the intersection as a line of cars lumbered downtown. Bobby fingered the phone in his pocket and glanced over at Gabriella. Gabriella was in the middle of a story about their friends Jessica and Raul. They’d been in couples therapy for almost six months. Raul had become a better listener, which had made Jessica happier, but Raul was happier too.
“With enough effort,” Gabriella said, “relationships can improve.”
Bobby turned his head to watch a cyclist shoot past, pedals whirling.
“It’s amazing,” Bobby said. “Bike riders go so fast on crowded city streets, much faster than cars.” He stroked the hairs of his tiny goatee. “Why don’t more people get around on bikes? Europeans are just smarter than Americans in that way.…
Curdled screams, purple arms. You entered, wailing, on a black tide of blood and guts. I inhaled your wet hair and clung onto you so tightly I thought you might burst.
But you didn’t. And my life was made.
Now by some cruel joke you stand before me, here in the depths of the underworld. My son! A living, breathing man, ruddy-cheeked and eyes shining. Your chest rises and falls. Blood pulses through your every sinew. Look how the ghosts clamour to catch a glimpse of you.…
The old hickory dropped Nut-brown seeds that we’d smash Our fingers trying to crack – the filled dirt innards Became our pretend dinner before Dad bandaged up the bloodied tips. Now it’s dead and dead cold from Standing in the Florida heat with no Blanket or break from its production. The fallen branches were chainsawed to Smoker bits at Christmas or Labor Day. We never thanked it with water or words For the shade and meals and memory-wounds. Mushrooms have invaded our yard Except the patched dirt that’s been Driven on for far too long. Nothing lives there. Nothing lives long enough for our children’s children anymore. We dig and build atop and strip the soil before it’s passed on. The flowers he gives his wife – when a newborn is Borne by her alone for twenty odd years – wilt and crumble within a week.…
I come from the home of a very great painter. In fact, I was painted by him and am a representation of him. I am what is called a self-portrait. And my painter is the distinguished and famous Rembrandt Van Rijn, who thought so much of himself that he called himself by only one name, Rembrandt.
In fact, you could say that since I am a self-portrait, I, too, am Rembrandt! At least I like to think of myself that way.
I have often wondered why I came into this world. Rembrandt, my creator, had gone through a lot in his life. He had used painting to study himself. He was a fine painter, perhaps the best in Amsterdam. But before he painted me, he had encountered many difficulties.…
Prize-winning poet Ann E. Michael lives in eastern Pennsylvania. Her latest poetry collection is Abundance/Diminishment, and her book The Red Queen Hypothesis won the 2022 Prairie State Poetry Prize. She’s also the author of Water-Rites (2012) and six chapbooks, and she maintains a long-running blog. In this interview (conducted by writer Ian Haight), Michael discusses her experiences as an American undergraduate educator, as well as the impacts of technology and her recent residency at Joya, Spain, on her writing.
You’ve recently retired from a career in academia, and you worked primarily with undergraduates—especially those new to a higher education environment. How do these students tend to value literature and creative writing, and how has this valuation changed over time?
My university job mainly took place in the context of academic support for students deemed “at risk” of not persisting to a degree.…
For someone who bragged about their off-campus apartment, hers sure had a lot more roaches than mine. A small red one skittered near my feet, and I jumped back.
Lainey opened the door. “Hey girl,” she said. The phrase lacked its usual cheeriness.
“Hey,” I said, walking in.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. “We needed to talk.”
She was being all quiet and squirmy, like the tension in the air caused her physical discomfort. She didn’t just express her emotions, she wore them, like a flashy accessory that everybody had to see.
Because we were fighting, I didn’t know if I should assume my typical spot in her green armchair, so I stood awkwardly beside it. I watched her shuffle into her kitchen.
I crouch in leaves and needles under pines and water oak. I crashed my way to this place through the saw-vines and mimosa avoiding poison ivy and backyards. Vibration
escalation, terror of arrival, noise and bulk and overwhelming joy, blur and roar and clack and whistle fast and loud and large receding sudden. Fading, gone.
The noise of startled birds returns, and the sound of my own breath. After long enough, I rise, lift my weight on steady hands and feet.
No rails for me no predetermined route marked out on maps. No tickets and no whistle. Crunch of footsteps chosen, breath. The scratch of nails on trunks of trees and long-discarded glass and rusted metal.
Times crashes into me at the crossing but I will just bend like the river.…
