My two brothers share a bedroom in the middle of the hallway. I share a room with my sister down at the end, across from my mom and stepdad’s room.
My sister and I share one full-sized bed that’s pushed right up next to the window. I sleep on the window side. On the wall across from my sister’s side is a big mirror and when we jump on the bed, we watch ourselves in it.
Laughing.
Floating.
Hung up by a nail next to the mirror, right by the door frame, there’s a small, pink porcelain Lord’s Prayer wall plaque. It has dark pink and blue flowers in each of the rounded corners and the prayer is printed in fancy writing in the center.
Every night I clasp my hands underneath my chin and recite the prayer in my head as I kick my sister’s cold feet away.…
Untitled, from the series “How to Make the Coffin Dance”, Myriam Dalal, 2016
D Day
On the day of my brother’s funeral, I heard that my father danced in front of his coffin. I tried to imagine it: the steps, the location of the coffin in the parking lot of the building, the mourners watching my father, the face of my brother, that of my father, what each of them was wearing that day and whether my father’s clothes would have been undone, his shirt coming partly unbuttoned during the performance. I wasn’t allowed to come down to the building’s entrance to see my brother in the coffin. I was told it was better if I stayed there, sitting on the sofa in the foyer of our home, while the rest of the family went down to see him lying down with his eyes closed one last time.…
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.…
