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
I plug the smudged tub in our cold bathroom, open the tap, unshuck myself from my robe and wade in lumbering, seven months pregnant.
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