Victoria Kohn Michels

A bird stops
while a couple
sit on their porch
and listen, as they
always do on Fridays.
They see a neighbor
across the street
in his underwear,
running out of the
house to stop his
wife from driving,
and the sky is a
clear star, no hail
no rain, no fear,
but the sounds of a train
louder, behind what
used to be woods,
closer, the
eye is blue on
one side of town,
black on the other,
in minutes, homes
unfold, naked,
everything in
splintered wood.
How can a stranger
know the value of
photographs lost,
while a box of San
Giorgio macaroni

lies perfect and whole

in the dirt?


From the Porch

Even the moon is doing it:
slouching in the sky
with a shrug.
Across the lawn, rhododendrons
heavy with rain,
shake in the moonlight,
which gentles the lines
of your face, and
discolors your clothes
so the blue of your suit coat
matches the blue of my wrists.
Like chimes in a cool wind,
your small hands are in my hair,
your small hands are everywhere.

Victoria Kohn Michels has three poems forthcoming in Lost Orchard. Her poems have appeared in Under 35: The New Generation of American Poets; The Quarterly; Hanging Loose; Open City; River Styx; Rolling Stone, and Maine Life



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