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Michele Sherman Poem
this boy -
he is mythology
he is the pomegranate sitting in persephone's
palm -
(looks can be deceiving)
this boy -
he is a mirror
can show medusa what heaven really is -
how pain really feels
but medusa never looks
this boy in the sun -
he is the smoking gun
in the death of icarus;
he is the crime scene in the middle of the ocean
this boy -
this boy is murder
he is cain holding a blade to abel's throat,
holding a mirror up to medusa,
force-feeding a pomegranate to persephone
this boy cuts the snakes off medusa's head
and makes snake-skin boots;
plucks the melted feathers from icarus'
cold hands and makes a throw pillow
this boy is murder when he wants to be;
this boy is murder when he needs to be
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2018
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Michele Sherman Poem
here is the house we grow up in;
down the road, there is the house we grow old in.
somewhere down the road, split right down the middle, is everything in between.
in this thousand acre town, there’s not much to know besides the way the grass rubs against our palms while we try to break our falls, or the way the concrete seems to have the same amount of cracks, every time we count.
i found you in this town, three streets up, like you never meant to be far, to be hiding.
i met you in the grass, dewy but ever so sweet.
i met you with a chip in your tooth, dull but ever so sharp.
i met you, loud but never quiet.
this town gave us fireflies in jars instead of train horns and city sidewalks;
gave us nights stargazing in your backyard instead of flashing lights in the middle of the street.
this town was our match in a city-wide power outage, and we wouldn’t blow out the light for a second.
this town made us, but it also saved us.
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2019
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Michele Sherman Poem
honey, you are not responsible for the skeletons hidden in his closet.
rinse. repeat.
you are not responsible for the bones threatening to spill out.
he can call you a doll and watch your cheeks redden,
but honey,
you are only a doll because he has taken hold of your strings.
you are not his marionette doll,
not a circus attraction
with his name on the door.
honey, he is not the ringleader.
has no one told you, you aren’t
responsible for taking apart his ribcage and fitting yourself beside his heart;
that you are not responsible for the emptiness you find there.
he can kiss you sweetly and fill you with butterflies,
but no one told you that butterflies turn into bees.
and honey, more often than not,
they sting.
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2019
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Michele Sherman Poem
so, here's the thing.
when you kiss me, there are no tsunamis.
there is no hurricane behind my eyelids and there is
no earthquake underneath us.
but there is the buzzing.
like a million, swarming bees,
rattling around inside our veins.
the buzzing is you, all soft and safe and
the swarming, well, the swarming is me.
i am all chaos, all the time.
that unending rattling
inside of your skin.
but in reality, aren't we really just the bees?
all lost and never really found, but searching -
always searching.
so tell me, honeybee.
what comes first -
the buzzing or the bees?
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2018
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Michele Sherman Poem
i do not want to have to ask you to hold my hand
i do not want to have to voice my insecurities
like glass shards rolling off a tongue
or a blade lodged in my throat;
it isn’t easy, to say the least
i don’t want to feel like i am perpetually the deer in headlights,
feeling the danger but staying,
regardless.
you looked so harmless in the summer light
but the heat has long since died out
and the light is anything but warm
i do not want to have to ask you to hold my hand -
you wouldn’t do it, regardless.
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2018
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Michele Sherman Poem
ode to my middle school english teacher, who
taught me that even though you have a voice,
it's better if you don't use it
ode to my middle school english teacher, who
not only gave up on me halfway through
the year,
but stopped feigning any kind of
support entirely
ode to the teacher who favorited the kids
who didn't deserve any favors
ode to the teacher that told a black boy to
go himself
ode to the teacher that made a hispanic girl
cry; ode to the teacher who didn't see race,
unless it wasn't white
ode to the english teacher that almost
made me stop writing
ode to the teacher who cared more about
her cigarettes than the fact that
at least three girls in her class wanted to kill
themselves
ode to the only english teacher that mattered;
ode to the english teacher who only mattered
because she made me feel
like i didn't.
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2018
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Michele Sherman Poem
welcome to this game of tug-of-war, where i always fall on my ass and always get back up for more.
(i can’t tell if that makes me hopeful or stupid.)
welcome to this game of tug-of-war, where you are nothing but the apple falling from the tree and i am always the idiot biting into it,
the idiot that always dies,
the idiot who never learns her lesson and takes bite after bite.
in any given situation, i am the idiot and you are the sharp-tongued serpent with the quick wit and all the right words.
in this game, i am the jester, the fool on a leash kept for your entertainment, held hostage by the god complex you hold so dearly.
where’s the story where the fool fights back?
where’s the fable or the tale where eve cuts off the head of the serpent,
the jester spits in the king’s face,
where the silly schoolgirl tells the ******* with the crooked smile to piss right off?
here’s a hint: this is it.
tired of being your plaything, your entertainment system on a leash, i am telling you to get lost.
i am telling you the game is over, and this time, i’m the winner.
this time, you fall and don’t get back up, not with this foot on your chest pinning you down.
this is the story where the underdog fights back.
this is the story where the used refuse to be abused.
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2019
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Michele Sherman Poem
'where do you think we go after death?'
she asks me this question with a rigid face;
stone cold and expecting
i open my mouth to answer and then -
promptly close it
i close my mouth in realization, wondering
why it felt
like the answer was supposed to be
sitting there
perched nice and pretty on the tip
of my tongue
just waiting to pounce
she asked me this weeks ago, maybe months
and it seems i am unable to erase it
from my memory
i am also unable
to provide an answer
isn't it obvious?
we go back to each other; with another
face and another voice and
a different name
we find our way back to each other
back to the people we knew before
even if we didn't know it
and the truth is
there isn't a way for us to know
we are no longer us; just a sliver
of a past life
caught up in something new
i told her this today, the words sitting
at the bottom of my throat
taking up too much space without permission
and at night i grasped her hand, curled
into her sleep warm chest
and i swear i heard her whisper
'i've found you again'
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2018
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Michele Sherman Poem
ever since i met you, you've reminded me
of the trees -
all long legs and lean skin, my tree branch goddess
you flourish in the sunlight, basking in the heat
and for as long as i can remember, i have
thought about building a home inside of you
you are safe where safe shouldn't be; i have
found comfort in your deep ridges
the vulnerability inside me is at ease
as i settle in the crook of your neck,
wrapped safely in your branches
and it's reckless, god, i know it is
to live in a house with an unstable foundation
and when they come kicking your door in
and chopping you down -
my dear, sweet forest girl
i will fall all the way down with you
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2018
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Michele Sherman Poem
let it be known that these are uncharted waters.
let it be known that this is a backwards wreckage at sea, where i save myself before the ship goes down,
where i only realize i’m sinking when i’m well past dead.
let it be known that this isn’t a tragedy.
this is the moment before the clouds crumble into something grey and ugly,
the moment before the thunder and the lightning make way for the rain,
the moment where i learn this is more about the aftermath than it is about the storm.
this is more about the reconstruction.
this is about the debris and concrete left on the ground,
so assume that debris means my body and the concrete is my heart,
assume that i’m still picking the pieces up.
for my own sake, i assume that this will take a while.
but a project isn’t a project unless you’ve got your blood in it,
and a project isn’t finished until you’re bled dry,
so please assume i’ve only got a pint and a half left and that i’m running on empty.
assume that this is the end, but don’t believe it’s over.
there’s more heartbreak where this came from,
but there’s always healing in its wake.
assume it’s there.
assume it’ll find you.
most of all, assume it’ll sink its teeth into you and never let go.
not until you’re bled dry.
Copyright © Michele Sherman | Year Posted 2019
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