Poetry by ​Jean Voneman Mikhail

Judith Jackson CC



​
Grayson Speaks   

Trains scream your name all night, Amir.
Graffiti on the box cars rock me in grief.
Spray painted hiss of your name, Amir.
Puffed up letters of a Mickey Mouse fist
punch street lights flying past the tracks. 
Huffed name from a paper bag, Amir. 
When you first told me my name’s Amir--
I thought, what kind of name 

is that, a mirror? You were just another twin 
bed in the room we shared 
at sober living. What’s in a name? 
Your name no longer means Prince, 
here in this city. Your name doesn’t keep you 
from grave consequences. 
Your name means your history doesn’t fit here. 

The addict in you arose 
from trauma— same as mine, or any other. 
I noticed you used me less and less, Amir.
That the smoke stacks behind you 
crumbled to their knees. That they couldn’t stand 
the thought of you leaving. 
Your name is now sandblasted out of this world.
Your name is now cut into a marble grave. 

Mouth of the Sciota River gushes 
in addicts’ dreams. A water wall broken. 
Point of transfer. Rivers entwined. 
The factory windows cracked in your eyes. 
No one was there when you passed. 
Walls of Portsmouth, Ohio, painted by floodwaters.
Bricked over windows. Your eyes only hoped. 

Your dumb mother’s love 
of Doja Cat. She is 60 years old. 
She thought she could buy you
some shoes and walk out of here 
on her high heels.

Your mother’s loving presence, 
her savior complex. 
She followed your ghost down Route 23
on the backs of white dashes 
flying along the highway. 

About 15 different rehabs in this town. 

Last time I saw you was in the rearview mirror 
of your mother’s car. She was the one who broke 
the first law of the 12 steps, 
never admitting she was powerless. 





​Jean Voneman Mikhail is a former college instructor and librarian who lives in Athens, Ohio. She has published in One Art, Sheila Na Gig Online, New Verse News, Gyroscope and others journals and anthologies. She was recently nominated for “best in the Net” by Eucalyptus Lit. 



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