Poetry by M. Klein

      Kipp Teague CC




In The Dream

                       the woman was ringing 
                                      and the phone answered the lying
                       and the empty living//room called 
                                      the doctor an oracle 
                       the round moon glittered tears
                                      and you weren’t home. 






Cedar and Cypress 
after Sam Sax


                        My friend has two splinters 
                        in him, crossed at the shoulders. 
                        His spine is partly rotting wood. 
                        Ancient timber, bloody. 
                        My friend is wallpapered 
                        with onionskin verse, though now 
                        he speaks evenly. Without angels. 
                        He whittles poetry from 
                        the splinters. Makes something 
                        new, something harmless. 

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M. Klein is a poet and artist from an Appalachian basement. Her work is tangled in hunger, and shaped like a promise. Her writing has been published by, or is forthcoming with: Ghost City Review, Broken Antler, Eunoia Review, and Pile Press. Klein’s debut chapbook, Brentwood, was published in 2023. She is also the creator of a quarterly poetry workshop by mail, To Light a Candle. Find her online at kleinmk.squarespace.com. 
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