Michele F. Cooper is the first-place
winner in Poetry Canada’s Rhymed
Poetry Competition and the
TallGrass Poetry Competition,
second-place winner in the Galway
Kinnell Poetry Competition, author
of two books and numerous
published poems, founding editor
of the Newport Review and Crone’s
Nest literary magazines, and of a
chapbook series, Premier Poets.
She recently won honorable
mentions in the Emily Dickinson
and New Millennium Poetry
Competitions. Her book Posting the
Watch has just been published by
Turning Point, the narrative poetry
imprint at WordTech. She is listed
in Who’s Who in America,
Contemporary Authors, and the
Directory of American Poets and
Fiction Writers, among others. She
recently moved from the edge of a
small horse farm (not hers) to
Providence, RI, and now to the
Cleveland area, where she writes
and works as a book editor.
winner in Poetry Canada’s Rhymed
Poetry Competition and the
TallGrass Poetry Competition,
second-place winner in the Galway
Kinnell Poetry Competition, author
of two books and numerous
published poems, founding editor
of the Newport Review and Crone’s
Nest literary magazines, and of a
chapbook series, Premier Poets.
She recently won honorable
mentions in the Emily Dickinson
and New Millennium Poetry
Competitions. Her book Posting the
Watch has just been published by
Turning Point, the narrative poetry
imprint at WordTech. She is listed
in Who’s Who in America,
Contemporary Authors, and the
Directory of American Poets and
Fiction Writers, among others. She
recently moved from the edge of a
small horse farm (not hers) to
Providence, RI, and now to the
Cleveland area, where she writes
and works as a book editor.
Rowena at Play
In the formal gardens of Adamitis
and Evie, our hosts with their shiny
coifs waltzing as one in step
with the chamber strings, our eyes
are fixed on Rowena in her first grand
entrance since she got back from France.
She’s got a white silk blazer and matching
pants, sky-blue blouse, ropes of pearls,
and gold Greek sandals, and she is tall
and tanned and ready for celebration
except that her hosts rush smilingly over,
white, short, squat like twins, and vexed
that her dazzle shifts the party from
the squabs and ices, soufflés and
almondines defining the rose décor.
Rowena has recovered! – walks as though
she never fell, smiles with her new teeth,
diamonds and sapphires resting at
the promise of future blooming. They
never expected this, thought there was
finally some room for growth, and now,
who will speak for the spotlights
on the buffet in the bright afternoon
with one pink worm in the lettuces?
Flotsam at 6
Children tumbling, falls softened
by torn leaves and rugs, outdoor trees
and bushes a solid fence keeping
the yard in and all the rest out.
Two girls, a boy, boy again, mixed twins,
mother getting thinner every year, ground
chuck in a pie pan not going far for six
and someone new arriving in April.
She scans the garden every morning, envies
the weeds their sturdy insinuation wherever
fancy takes them, coming with gusto for sun,
sweet air, rain baptizing every leaf,
just like her kids fueling up the best they can,
meat and soda, mashed potatoes from the
dwindling box, apples and cut carrots when
she’s watching, talking strength and growing
up.
What can she bring them
with yesterday’s bread and milk?
Á la Carte
It is evening, and quiet
overtakes the rats chewing
into the kitchen floor,
sends the clock’s tocks
and electric hums
into cardiac arrest,
spotlight on the cold,
intestinal throbs as nips
are pulled from mother-flesh.
Trouble slips through breaks
in the tissue, lodges nimbly in
lungs or bowels, nibbles into
the succulence, warm, wet
and spacious with room
to rest and rouse their strength.
Come daybreak, some new
motive to start for breakfast
when skin’s thin, when
clear daylight shines her
majesty and tongues find a crack,
one pinhole deaf to forces
beyond heart’s domain,
tentative movements keeping
nerves on alert.
Who would say it isn’t for the
best? Nibbling has a joyful
quality, feeds the hunger
while stealing from a rich host.
Yellow Light
One harsh note in the trouble clef
rubbed her scales the wrong way,
the words “don’t like it” again,
the same “don’t like it” at breakfast,
even at the birthday buffet
where Katy held court
after that cold visit home
when Ross’s father was giving up
rocking on the bentwood chair
from breakfast till bedtime
He wasn’t crabby anymore,
setting stone still after a lifetime
of slaps and bad turns,
nothing anyone could help,
he was saturated with burning whiskey
eating the lining out of his clouds.
Always said his Delia was deaf
losing her threads on account of not listening,
no amount of slapping her into place
could bring her around –
that was one stubborn woman.
Katy watched and listened
till she caught the gist of Ross’s song,
figured how she wouldn’t sing it no-how,
she’d bend those buffets to her best broken
table,
cracked purple plates with salad and fruits.
He’d go hungry, she saw, waiting her out –
but she’d be damned clogging her pipes
with creams and spry and butter and oil.
Woman has to take a stand somewhere.
Parsing Denver at 40
Contrary messages ratatat
like noise from her mixer,
spice her lemon cake with
gripes and recriminations,
rapid-fire projections kneading
her nights and weekends.
She’s been cross since Tuesday,
the first of May, when he left
for the fifth time since discharge,
fears her connection thinning,
love scraping off the oak where
she fires pebbles like bullets,
her touches all year brewing jolts
of fear, shivers and goose-bumps
springing into place as though
they’re still loading the rifles
outside the tent in the long
silence respecting the dead.
She crosses her heart, swears
hands off till he enters her days
of hopeless hoping, or hightails
it back to Kansas, where the
buddies will pass the mugs,
gawk, wail, and tell their lies.
Here in Tulsa, they’re at cross
purposes, feet tapping
at different temperatures.
It never crosses her mind
that a golden crust takes time
and needs watching.
In the formal gardens of Adamitis
and Evie, our hosts with their shiny
coifs waltzing as one in step
with the chamber strings, our eyes
are fixed on Rowena in her first grand
entrance since she got back from France.
She’s got a white silk blazer and matching
pants, sky-blue blouse, ropes of pearls,
and gold Greek sandals, and she is tall
and tanned and ready for celebration
except that her hosts rush smilingly over,
white, short, squat like twins, and vexed
that her dazzle shifts the party from
the squabs and ices, soufflés and
almondines defining the rose décor.
Rowena has recovered! – walks as though
she never fell, smiles with her new teeth,
diamonds and sapphires resting at
the promise of future blooming. They
never expected this, thought there was
finally some room for growth, and now,
who will speak for the spotlights
on the buffet in the bright afternoon
with one pink worm in the lettuces?
Flotsam at 6
Children tumbling, falls softened
by torn leaves and rugs, outdoor trees
and bushes a solid fence keeping
the yard in and all the rest out.
Two girls, a boy, boy again, mixed twins,
mother getting thinner every year, ground
chuck in a pie pan not going far for six
and someone new arriving in April.
She scans the garden every morning, envies
the weeds their sturdy insinuation wherever
fancy takes them, coming with gusto for sun,
sweet air, rain baptizing every leaf,
just like her kids fueling up the best they can,
meat and soda, mashed potatoes from the
dwindling box, apples and cut carrots when
she’s watching, talking strength and growing
up.
What can she bring them
with yesterday’s bread and milk?
Á la Carte
It is evening, and quiet
overtakes the rats chewing
into the kitchen floor,
sends the clock’s tocks
and electric hums
into cardiac arrest,
spotlight on the cold,
intestinal throbs as nips
are pulled from mother-flesh.
Trouble slips through breaks
in the tissue, lodges nimbly in
lungs or bowels, nibbles into
the succulence, warm, wet
and spacious with room
to rest and rouse their strength.
Come daybreak, some new
motive to start for breakfast
when skin’s thin, when
clear daylight shines her
majesty and tongues find a crack,
one pinhole deaf to forces
beyond heart’s domain,
tentative movements keeping
nerves on alert.
Who would say it isn’t for the
best? Nibbling has a joyful
quality, feeds the hunger
while stealing from a rich host.
Yellow Light
One harsh note in the trouble clef
rubbed her scales the wrong way,
the words “don’t like it” again,
the same “don’t like it” at breakfast,
even at the birthday buffet
where Katy held court
after that cold visit home
when Ross’s father was giving up
rocking on the bentwood chair
from breakfast till bedtime
He wasn’t crabby anymore,
setting stone still after a lifetime
of slaps and bad turns,
nothing anyone could help,
he was saturated with burning whiskey
eating the lining out of his clouds.
Always said his Delia was deaf
losing her threads on account of not listening,
no amount of slapping her into place
could bring her around –
that was one stubborn woman.
Katy watched and listened
till she caught the gist of Ross’s song,
figured how she wouldn’t sing it no-how,
she’d bend those buffets to her best broken
table,
cracked purple plates with salad and fruits.
He’d go hungry, she saw, waiting her out –
but she’d be damned clogging her pipes
with creams and spry and butter and oil.
Woman has to take a stand somewhere.
Parsing Denver at 40
Contrary messages ratatat
like noise from her mixer,
spice her lemon cake with
gripes and recriminations,
rapid-fire projections kneading
her nights and weekends.
She’s been cross since Tuesday,
the first of May, when he left
for the fifth time since discharge,
fears her connection thinning,
love scraping off the oak where
she fires pebbles like bullets,
her touches all year brewing jolts
of fear, shivers and goose-bumps
springing into place as though
they’re still loading the rifles
outside the tent in the long
silence respecting the dead.
She crosses her heart, swears
hands off till he enters her days
of hopeless hoping, or hightails
it back to Kansas, where the
buddies will pass the mugs,
gawk, wail, and tell their lies.
Here in Tulsa, they’re at cross
purposes, feet tapping
at different temperatures.
It never crosses her mind
that a golden crust takes time
and needs watching.
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