MICHAELA MAYER

Creekside House


the portrait on the wall, its dark cascade of hair
and wry thin-lipped smile, eyes fringed 
in sable, is smudged. the mark obscures the tip
of my grandmother’s nose: narrow, straight,
and sure of itself, like her before the bent
timelines of dementia descended into her head
and stroke after stroke took her sight. now
she bends to kneel in the garden, capable hands
shaping the soil. she was never so tender
as when caring for plants, preferred their solemn
quiet to a disorderly horde of children.
with a broom she sweeps the front porch: i can
hear its dry hiss back and forth against 
the bricks, an occasional hitch in its rhythm
as grandmother admires her progress. 
but no, she is dead, no longer in hospice, gone:
yet there she is, folding plastic bags
to fit in the basket where she keeps each one,
another habit of thrift, holdover from 
the depression years. here, in this place where
she taught me how to hold a snake (her
childhood wild and unsupervised) i see her 
everywhere, faded but still present. 
there she goes, walking across the long lawn:
wandering like she did, first as a child,
then before her death, when her senses blended
together in one final paean to living
while her grown son refused her the caretaking
she needed. neglected even in death,
boxes of her things pile high in the darkened
rooms of this place. see: she’s over there,
raising her hand—

CW – sexual assault

Derdriu of the Sorrows


you stretch a hand for what grows just beyond
            your reach: a raven eating bloodied snow
and pull in clumps of matted black hair 

the last milk-fat calf slaughtered in the yard
            your double: brought up soft 
but raised for the consumption of men

whose lust is the fatal woman of your story,
            not you, locked in the tower,
waiting for your husband to choose rape

but you refuse to be a sheep between two rams, dash
            your skull to fragments against rock:
a violent end instead of violation

your wail from the womb lost on the sons of Uisliu

Michaela Mayer is a 26-year-old poet and educator from Virginia. Her works have previously appeared in Claw & Blossom, Perhappened, Q/A Poetry, Barren Magazine, Feral Poetry, Olit, the lickety~split, and others. She has a forthcoming poem with Monstering Mag. She can be found on Twitter @mswannmayer5.

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