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
The crescent moon, an elbow wraps around my waist, gray-gathering me in like a reaper. You’re the white collision of stars behind my eyes—and
In the yellowed milk of predawn sky, he makes us sprint until we glister with cold, sweaty gooseflesh. Press past beckoning wings of the
My sister rides a one-eyed horse. This is no allegory for the degradation of American romanticism. This is a humble beast left incomplete by