Therapeutic
by Colleen Michaels
“Therapeutic” was previously published in the Mom Egg Review.
I decide to tell my new nurse at the Coumadin Clinic
how she looks a bit like a poet I really admire.
We Google, and she agrees, something in the shoulders,
maybe around the eyes. She lets the guy with the walker
wait while we talk a bit about poetry and heart failure.
Now when I go to give her the finger, let her test my blood,
be patient, the room clots with this compassion, a poem.
I've learned what to do in a car accident, if things go bad.
She takes my hand, and tells me it might go bad,
but if it does, she says, we will know how to fix it.
Conflict Resolution Through Soup
by Colleen Michaels
“Conflict Resolution Through Soup” was previously published in Paterson Literary Review.
When the political poet comes to my school
I make him soup, a vegan miracle
of organic carrots and ancient grains,
and he hugs me. I dodge his appetite
for a third-party debate, labor unions, the sweat shop talk.
My compassion is measured out in kitchen tools;
this soup is brimming with opinion.
My soup shifts shape in the cauldron.
I sagely puree the unsavory and sour
into palatable luxury. Shoe stringed onions
coated in ale and cheddar cling to my spoons.
Third graders unknowingly eat kale at my table.
My soup turns battles into cook-offs, whisking
aggression into bisques and soft broths.
Down to a simmer, I turn the dry cough
of neighbors no longer warm to pot lucks
with my chicken stock and generous doughy elbows.
I slip ginger in the pockets of my enemy
and fill the lean bellies of burglars at night.
For my father I serve something milky
to calm an ulcer from daughters who over salt.
My mother, I give her enough pepper to occupy her tongue.
Now all happily digging for clams. All floating oyster crackers.
On nights when my love moves to his far side of our bed
his bones no longer against my belly – I serve mulligatawny.
Like silk and fire in the mouth, he comes back to me hungry.
When we are poor and at the end,
I’ll take those saffron threads from the cupboard,
drown them deep in an old family stew,
take one last viking stance in steam.
The Last Bath of the First Snow
by Colleen Michaels
“The Last Bath of the First Snow” was previously published in Literary Mama.
This might be the last bath we will take
together, so of course I say yes
after shoveling and traveling
from your north to south pole,
a trudge between the mounds
made from the porch to the car.
Anyway, if I keep you out any longer
you’ll get too cold and we might dig too deep,
reveal the grit of gravel that embarrasses
our perfect journey like something caught
in between a tooth. A spoiler.
We leave the snow to its clean perfection,
let nature and traffic be the ones to muck it up.
It won’t always be this smooth,
so we take that bath.
The house is warm
the door so strong between climates.
We take off all our layers
and there are many
probably more than you need.
In the hallway I ask you to stay
near me and that's all you know you do.
We unroll our cuffs and let the matted
snow, pats of chilled butter, give up on the carpet.
Your pants are a thick wet
under that your PJ's are sopped too.
Your little red thighs cold to the touch.
You delight in the red tinge of my skin,
knowing that you are of me.
We run up the stairs in just our undies
and you love this part, think it’s better than toast.
You ask if we can hold hands. Of course we can hold hands.
We laugh as we try to fit our cold compressed
bodies on the same bare step
your happiness is in your mouth,
the way all your square
first teeth line up.
Do you know too
that this might be the last time
with me in the bath?
You give yourself over to your little girl life.
We sing about riding in the car. I’m the driver.
I suspect you give this one to me.
Our knees sink under the water. A tight fit,
our different displacements.
You don’t reach out for me with a baby’s need,
but you let me mother you.
I wash your hair
letting the water
swerve around your perfect ear
as if you are snow
that I don’t want to melt.
Colleen Michaels's poems have been made into installations on shower curtains, bar coasters, and the stairs to Crane Beach in Ipswich, Massachusetts. Her work has been published in Barrelhouse, The Paterson Literary Review, Cider Press Review, The Museum of Americana, and others. Colleen directs the Writing Studio at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, Massachusetts, where she hosts The Improbable Places Poetry Tour bringing poetry to unlikely places like tattoo parlors, laundromats, and swimming pools.
by Colleen Michaels
“Therapeutic” was previously published in the Mom Egg Review.
I decide to tell my new nurse at the Coumadin Clinic
how she looks a bit like a poet I really admire.
We Google, and she agrees, something in the shoulders,
maybe around the eyes. She lets the guy with the walker
wait while we talk a bit about poetry and heart failure.
Now when I go to give her the finger, let her test my blood,
be patient, the room clots with this compassion, a poem.
I've learned what to do in a car accident, if things go bad.
She takes my hand, and tells me it might go bad,
but if it does, she says, we will know how to fix it.
Conflict Resolution Through Soup
by Colleen Michaels
“Conflict Resolution Through Soup” was previously published in Paterson Literary Review.
When the political poet comes to my school
I make him soup, a vegan miracle
of organic carrots and ancient grains,
and he hugs me. I dodge his appetite
for a third-party debate, labor unions, the sweat shop talk.
My compassion is measured out in kitchen tools;
this soup is brimming with opinion.
My soup shifts shape in the cauldron.
I sagely puree the unsavory and sour
into palatable luxury. Shoe stringed onions
coated in ale and cheddar cling to my spoons.
Third graders unknowingly eat kale at my table.
My soup turns battles into cook-offs, whisking
aggression into bisques and soft broths.
Down to a simmer, I turn the dry cough
of neighbors no longer warm to pot lucks
with my chicken stock and generous doughy elbows.
I slip ginger in the pockets of my enemy
and fill the lean bellies of burglars at night.
For my father I serve something milky
to calm an ulcer from daughters who over salt.
My mother, I give her enough pepper to occupy her tongue.
Now all happily digging for clams. All floating oyster crackers.
On nights when my love moves to his far side of our bed
his bones no longer against my belly – I serve mulligatawny.
Like silk and fire in the mouth, he comes back to me hungry.
When we are poor and at the end,
I’ll take those saffron threads from the cupboard,
drown them deep in an old family stew,
take one last viking stance in steam.
The Last Bath of the First Snow
by Colleen Michaels
“The Last Bath of the First Snow” was previously published in Literary Mama.
This might be the last bath we will take
together, so of course I say yes
after shoveling and traveling
from your north to south pole,
a trudge between the mounds
made from the porch to the car.
Anyway, if I keep you out any longer
you’ll get too cold and we might dig too deep,
reveal the grit of gravel that embarrasses
our perfect journey like something caught
in between a tooth. A spoiler.
We leave the snow to its clean perfection,
let nature and traffic be the ones to muck it up.
It won’t always be this smooth,
so we take that bath.
The house is warm
the door so strong between climates.
We take off all our layers
and there are many
probably more than you need.
In the hallway I ask you to stay
near me and that's all you know you do.
We unroll our cuffs and let the matted
snow, pats of chilled butter, give up on the carpet.
Your pants are a thick wet
under that your PJ's are sopped too.
Your little red thighs cold to the touch.
You delight in the red tinge of my skin,
knowing that you are of me.
We run up the stairs in just our undies
and you love this part, think it’s better than toast.
You ask if we can hold hands. Of course we can hold hands.
We laugh as we try to fit our cold compressed
bodies on the same bare step
your happiness is in your mouth,
the way all your square
first teeth line up.
Do you know too
that this might be the last time
with me in the bath?
You give yourself over to your little girl life.
We sing about riding in the car. I’m the driver.
I suspect you give this one to me.
Our knees sink under the water. A tight fit,
our different displacements.
You don’t reach out for me with a baby’s need,
but you let me mother you.
I wash your hair
letting the water
swerve around your perfect ear
as if you are snow
that I don’t want to melt.
Colleen Michaels's poems have been made into installations on shower curtains, bar coasters, and the stairs to Crane Beach in Ipswich, Massachusetts. Her work has been published in Barrelhouse, The Paterson Literary Review, Cider Press Review, The Museum of Americana, and others. Colleen directs the Writing Studio at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, Massachusetts, where she hosts The Improbable Places Poetry Tour bringing poetry to unlikely places like tattoo parlors, laundromats, and swimming pools.
