Two Poems

Michelle Reed
 About the Writer

Michelle Reed is a Michigan native working as a freelance writer and editor in Chicago. Her work has appeared in The Albion Review, Air Poetry, and The Columbia College Literary Review. She earned her MA in English from Bucknell University last spring. In her spare time, she edits Pink Slayer, an online feminist magazine. 



Something about travel

makes us lighter. We drive

to Missouri, and I discover


prairies. There is space

for doubt in the Northern plains.

Space for undoing. When I say


expansion, this is what I mean:

Iowa, full of grain silos

and white houses. Iowa,


wide and unmoving. We are lost

somewhere near Des Moines,

and everything


is cornfields and yellow flowers

in highway medians. Wherever

we are going, it is golden.





I miss you most at night

and when the morning glories


close. The sky sounds like

an ocean here. At home,


like a highway. I haven’t seen

a lily in this town, but every day


I watch the river stretching

toward its own end.


Maybe you will dream

about the mountain tonight.


Maybe black bear cubs

and caddisflies will swarm


around your bed. Listen:

the moon folds inward, slowly,

the rain cradles near us.