Poems by Michelle Hendrixson-Miller
Archives: by Issue | by Author Name
Palindrome Beginning and Ending with Lines from Jane Hirshfield
by Michelle Hendrixson-Miller
Most weekends in summer, Michelle can be found with friends, kayaking the Duck River, one of the most biodiverse rivers in North America. This waterway contains several species of freshwater life, like the pearly birdwing mussel, found nowhere else on Earth.
The way the highwire walker must carry a pole to make her arms longer,
you carried me. I’ll carry you past the frozen pink hyacinth blooms,
weighted down and melting. Like soap made of glass,
from this distance, capitalism is
just killing insects. Here in paradise,
where the bee’s buzz lowers,
where the carcasses of birds
remain hidden,
soon we’ll be told
the blood of our daughters has begun to stain the snow.
The blood of our daughters has begun to stain the snow.
Soon we’ll be told
remain hidden,
where the carcasses of birds,
where the bee’s buzz lowers.
Just killing insects here in paradise.
From this distance, capitalism is
weighted down and melting. Like soap made of glass,
you carried me. I’ll carry you, past the frozen pink hyacinth blooms,
the way the high-wire walker must carry a pole to make her arms longer.
© Michelle Hendrixson-Miller
The Number of Men Controlling Half the World’s Wealth Has Dropped from 62 to 8.
by Michelle Hendrixson-Miller
From Canary Spring 2025
Not only are 8
men sucking
up half the world’s wealth,
like 8 rogue clouds sucking
up an entire ocean,
they are also sucking
up the sun, sunflowers,
dandelions—sucking
the breath I mean,
the hope.
© Michelle Hendrixson-Miller
This and What Comes After
by Michelle Hendrixson-Miller
From Canary Spring 2025
The air opens into cooler air, and we say nothing. Not hello. Not I miss you. We move what we own around to maximize space. When flood waters rise elsewhere, we somewhere scoff or shrug. More and more, what we don’t do builds an arsenal against us. Not doomed yet—but here, the upturned wheelbarrow and drowned cows. When our future selves look back, they hold us in contempt—picking what we want to moan about. The spoiled melons. The hills burnt black. Yet, there was a time when colors floated through our minds without words—a time when a cloud in the shape of a turtle plowed our thoughts into fields. Look, we had to learn for ourselves how to count the miracles. How, as children, we once sat in the back of a Ford Pinto—not burning. How, one day, we lost nothing more than the cap to the olive oil and, for a little while, our keys.
Previously published in Pithead Chapel
© Michelle Hendrixson-Miller