Two Poems by Michael Montlack

Ruth

1935—Amelia Earhart was the first

to fly solo from Honolulu to California.

The Dust Bowl rolled out record heat.  

Where at 16 could you have flown or blown?

Surely not far from the family that took in

your baby girl. Like your biblical namesake:

Where you go I will go . . . Even buried

in the hometown that called you hussy.

No aprons or arthritis in my imaginary

portrait of you. Just a faceless silhouette.

A marble cameo laced tight as a noose

around the neck of a voiceless woman.

Ruth—Grandmother—you are a stitch

in the lining of an inside pocket, a vintage

jacket I have never worn. Hanging

in a dark locked wardrobe that smells

just like me.

Birth Was a Wordless Meadow

Yet we understood the directions, how to

traverse it, at night, barefoot and alone,

never tripping on knotty roots or tangled grass,

even with our eyes still blind, interpreting

the gush that urged us, a testament

to the self, porous but prepared

to arrive at some implied landing

where we might rest, if only for a little while.

Michael Montlack is author of the poetry book Cool Limbo (NYQ Books) and editor of the essay anthology My Diva (University of Wisconsin Press). Recently his work has appeared in North American Review, Hotel Amerika, Poet Lore, Painted Bride Quarterly and Advocate.com. He lives in NYC.