Rebecca Michels
Moon Phase
Before I knew it
was the lunar eclipse,
I caught the reflection
in my kitchen window:
low and yellow. I was
searching for an email—
a discount for a lymphatic
facial brush; could I really
brush the burgeoning
wrinkles from my forehead,
lift my cheeks back up
where they belong—
I searched the words
I remembered, sorry late.
Instead, a missed reply
from my long-ago ex.
I hope you’re safe was all
I’d written. He’d survived the fires,
but, he went on, a week later
his brother killed himself.
I knew his brother—his brother
was a complicated asshole.
Years later, I’d write about him.
Years ago, he’d written about me;
a song about the hike
my ex and I took
on the tallest mountain in Maine.
On top of the razor’s edge,
I was terrified. He called it Loon.
I downloaded the attachment,
and he sang out my name,
sang about us pulling through
—we didn’t pull through.
His voice was tender, alive,
and the moon was high and
crystal-clear in the black sky.
Women’s Work
I know women have a lot to do,
says the woman in the next seat
as she holds mine down
so it won’t snap up. I’m overloaded
with the kids’ jackets and programs.
We’re here to see a musical
about the Suffragist movement
and half-way through I’m ashamed
to admit I learn a lot, like how
the leaders were force-fed in prison.
The washing machine breaks down
at my parents’ place while we’re visiting;
I wash heavy jeans and sweatshirts,
small cotton underpants in the tub.
Leaning over the edge, I move
the way I’m sure my grandmother did
with her washboard in the basement.
Are you a project manager?
asks the plumber. Yes.
I make the kids’ breakfast, pick
white pith off mandarin segments.
Good luck, my mom says as she does
when I’m on my way out. I’m picking up
my shoes at the shoemaker.
He shows me my shoes, half-soled,
You didn’t tell me to do the heels.
I recognize the character actor in front of me
with her daughters, tap her shoulder,
I’m a longtime fan of your work.
She says, That means a lot to me.
I’m here with my kids too, I say, and
sit back down for the second act.
Rebecca Michels is a poet and artist living in Madison, Wisconsin. Her recent work appears in Plume and Midway Journal, and is forthcoming in UCity Review and Grand Journal.
