Three poems by Michelle Askin

A Soft Opening

We were in the work house; I remember that.
You said someone has brought us a black forest cake.
And I kept thinking you said someone has brought us
a black forest. And the room became a wealth
of dark shadowy branches and then wetness from rain-
the eerie moon too shading inside the latched door.
My love for you that year was overwhelming-
always calling out for help. Taking you
from your bread leavening duties
and your slaughtering of the chickens.
The knife in your trembling, gentle hands
was like the wondrous silver in your voice.
You were asking if I needed a ride to where my care
would be more severe. And I saw gray metal walls.
A radio of dreary fuzz and distant ocean storm warning
tranced wildly in the lungs of my lonely breathing.
And then I became sadder, knowing
just how far away I had always been.






​Fallen

I had this dream that I was alive again.
And afterwards, I called you from the nearest payphone.
You laughed a little, saying, Okay, maybe we'll see each other
again. Then you let yourself breathe softly for a while, 
which I think had something to do with sadness.
The breaths more and more like a song. 
But I didn't tell you this, or ask why. 
I just listened to your radio fade-like humming
melt into the washout rain until the downpour thickened
even more and drowned out the dial ring of your hang up.
And still, I kept speaking within the neon blurred glass.
I kept holding the red phone closer to my mouth as though
somehow that would help, as though you could hear me
while faraway and sleeping—hear me say
that I am sorry and how lately I’ve wanted so much
for it to be true that we really could be born again.
That in my repentance, the Lord would take all my shit 
and bathe my body into the clean and everlasting.
And maybe too, you would have heard me say
that I had forgotten how gorgeous this part of the city was-
lights from the gray parking garage illuminating into bronze
all the wet rose bushes and arches of alleys, and even
reaching into the frosty river of night traffic bridges.
Or, maybe by then it had begun the hour, 
where all were awakening.





​Arise

Welcome the new generation who won’t buy
into the less is more. No more is more.
And I want more all the time. I want to swallow
lights emitted from NASA satellites, so I can feel
myself glow in the darkest far away spaces and connect
to constellations rotating over where you dream.
It’s amazing how the more I fuck it all up
and so many bad years that fade by of just driving,
myself, alone through congested highway traffic
closed off from anywhere to go, the more I put
my faith in something good to come. Like I swear,
in one of these strangely blessed years ahead,
there will be a night where we find ourselves resting
within one another in some lonely but beautiful city—
majestic red bridge tunnel and silver river running
through. A city, where people still count themselves
to sleep with lovely things of sheep.
One shepherd leaving the fold of ninety-nine
for the lost and maybe very sad, hurt one.
One thousand and nine dusks of lamb wool-
like sky promising snow and closures to the places
that have not enough warmth for us, not enough
a clearing to lead us in through.




Bio: Michelle Askin's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pleiades, Rust & Moth,
The Meadow, Hopper Review, Lindenwood Review, Up The Staircase, and elsewhere.
​Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She resides in Northern Virginia.