Michelle Boisseau is a Professor of English at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. Her books of poetry include: No Private Life (Vanderbilt, 1990), Understory (Northeastern University, 1996), Trembling Air (Arkansas, 2003), A Sunday in God-Years (Arkansas, 2009) and the forthcoming Among the Gorgons. Her work has appeared in The Kenyon Review, The Gettysburg Review, The Yale Review and Ploughshares. In 2010 she received an NEA Fellowship in Poetry and in 2015 was awarded the Tampa Prize.What I mean is I’m digging
in the garden or just walking
dully along, going on
with my boggy life, when it
snaps me up like a mouse,
a snack for the hawk of grief
and like a car antennae
my tail whangs in the air.
The wind harps my whiskers
as too stunned to squeak, I’m sported
farther and farther into edgelessness.
Scientists say gravity is good
for making grass and trees stand up,
suns jostle, bodies fall,
but they can’t say what it is.
Close and tight and sweet
as mounded dirt, cover the length of me.
It’s good to be held down
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