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
Opening a fifth in place of presents to an old movie from an era of snow and repentance, and fedoraed men with turned up
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