“Revisionist Histories” is another poem from the Elemental series. Working on this series with its biographical roots has certainly been interesting and revelatory for me. I’ve come to notice a pattern where I find it difficult to stop writing poems about certain lovers or even isolated events, while I have wholly neglected others. I’m sometimes surprised by my own emotional reactions; how I can’t seem to let go of some old (very old) betrayals. How difficult it can be to write about those who meant the most, or that I still look back on with some fondness. Continue reading Prose Poem: Revisionist Histories
Another from my series on love, sex and relationships, on attempting to create love with an ill-suited match. Continue reading Prose Poem: Little Butch Blue
There are few poets more important to me than Adrienne Rich. Her words found me in a community college “Women’s Literature” course. I didn’t know exactly what was going to be covered in that course; I just loved literature and women’s writing and thought I would enjoy it. It turned out to be the course that would guide my studies and shape the course of my life. Adrienne Rich spoke to me in ways I didn’t know existed, about ideas I didn’t know belonged to anyone else. It was largely the life and poetry of Rich and women like her that motivated me to apply to the creative writing program at Bowling Green State University with a minor in Women, Gender and Sexuality Studies Continue reading Poetry: Adrienne Dies
Sex, love and relationships are rarely easy, especially when you’re young. Continue reading Prose Poem: The First Girl
From my untitled series on love, sex and relationships. As always, critiques are welcome. Stirring Things Up You’re one tall, cool drink of water.Let me inject you with CO2shake you gently;it’s been so long since I’ve seen you dance.Bubble forth. Remind me what it is to laugh. by Michelle Beltano Curtis All Rights Reserved. “Getting Stirred Up” may not be reprinted without permission. Continue reading Poem: Stirring Things Up
You’ve abandoned me my friend, you—my religion—in my crisis, my greatest time of need. My peril of spirit and body slipping away from the world with all that it used to mean. Without you, I am nothing, nothing, no joy, no quake, no death, no rebirth, no release. You do not reel me in, do not free me. You do not hold me close, only … Continue reading Prose Poem: La Petit Mort
Jeremiah fell into his padded leather chair, his breath escaping in a long huff. He felt the constraint of his tie, his suit coat, set one aside, loosened the other. His gaze was focused on a photo on his desk. He and Anne posed precariously over a long deep crevice in the sandstone of Rockbridge, each in their own brand of mock teetering, arms and hands spread wide and flailing, eyes glinting. The happy times before her illness began. He picked up the photo. It must have been the fiftieth time in three days. Heaviness clouded his chest and he unbuttoned his stiff collar. It took everything he had to drag himself to work now. There was no motivation. No future family. No Anne.
Swiveling his chair around from his desk, he hurls the photo in its heavy wooden frame, smashing the thick glass of his window, identical to every other in the 23 story building of steel girders and glass, running from floor to ceiling. It shatters, tinkles as it drops like a hundred wind chimes… Continue reading Short Fiction: Gifting Purpose