Reviewed by Jamie Lorenzen In the opening stanza of the title poem of her second book of poems, Michelle Meyer’s ostensible trouble with being
On the day my son turns sixteen, I discover the language with no word for father. He takes his presents to his room, closes
The instructor guides us to the fetal position I recall balling up & in when I lost my first baby and hormones tore me
Inside the box, a puddle of pearl. When lifted by its thread-thin straps, it cascaded into the form of a negligee gown. She said