December 15, 2011 / Creative Writing
Chris Hoke learns something about receiving the Messiah from towering and tattooed Teddy, a former gang member in Skagit Valley, Washington.
September 6, 2018
I remember a doctor who wasn’t mine,
flitting through when the sun broke
new, perching briefly on my narrow bed,
that mattress I was matted on.
She was a woman first, so she sang
to the babe of me, bloomed
with hellos and yellow light, voiced
the day’s encompassing night.
I want to die her way,
singing each morning
like June, all the notes
just beyond being in tune.
Susan Carlson lives, works, and writes in southeastern Michigan. She’s had the opportunity to develop her poetry in workshops at Tin House, the Minnesota Northwoods Writers Conference, and the Djerassi Resident Artists Program. Her poems have appeared in Your Impossible Voice, Blue Bear Review, Switchgrass Review, and Literary Nest and are forthcoming in Pretty Owl Poetry and from Madness Muse Press.