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.
Michael:
These are just beautiful.
Thanks.
Cecilia
Love the fluid fresh unexpected turn of the water falling over rocks, my dad trout-fishing and releasing me to the forest of the grandmothers