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
Did it fail because it didn’t come in first, didn’t reach the summit, didn’t score more, didn’t make the team? Because its opponent falsified
I need sight like a mantis shrimp, each eye sweeping its own span of ocean, or eagles who quickly shift their focus, see
Your face as big as the moon. Eclipses me. Tea-stained, golden-leafed. Are we singing or kissing? You pluck planets from their sockets, their cozy