Weather Ball Green


by Myron Michael

Electric hum of megawatts, too soft to illuminate but, just bright enough; sink slowly filling with water, bags of clothes and bags of clothes torn open—clothes on the concrete floor and rags, worn from wiping clean days of smudge and months of recreation. A futon against a wall, beside the washer, against the one outlet beneath two windows rimmed with frost; a border around each frame  made up of old and falling snow; it is cold, and so are the pipes. The sun is a matted disc of white as vibrant as whenever sky parts—the sky is the sum of its parts—but behind an overcast, a spitting image of the moon. Two moons around the cracks and caulked creases, around a crooked beam attached to a staircase and canisters. Between Madison and Boston Square, in slushy streets once covered with ice, where street sweepers were out salting roads at Eastern and Hall, Hall then Kalamazoo, Kalamazoo and Oakdale, there are houses behind houses. Within them, transparent generations have settled an urge to live elsewhere with their need to be, by keeping the option of leaving to settle elsewhere open, by never leaving. The futon and the clothes do not belong to the owners of the apartment, are not the first load of another load coming; are of no consequence to the tenants, are spun clean, tumbled dry, donated to the Image for charity, and then wrote off.



whose name is it that
is without honor at home
goes unanswered to    

Myron Michael is a literary artist and producer at Move or Die, poetry collaborations. He has placed poems in print journals including Fourteen Hills, Toad Suck Review, Spillway, and online journals including The Account, The Pedestal, and Rivet. He most enjoys teaching writing workshops and making collaborative art. Read more at www.myronmichael.com