Michelle Brooks

Since God Could Not Be Everywhere

It looks cold out there, my mother said,
whenever skies went overcast,
forcing us into layers and jackets,
no matter the temperature. I loved
this sweet maternal tick in a woman
whose own life had offered little
in the way of benign comforts. It’s another
Mother’s Day, and she’s still gone. I guess
that’s not going to change. When she felt
stressed, my mother made lists, Things To Do
and From The Desk Of scraps littered
the house, some items never crossed.
I think of my own lists, the ones written
between the lines. And when the sky clouds
and it’s warm, I find myself chilled, as if
the way it looked were enough to make it true.

Michelle Brooks has published a collection of poetry, Make Yourself Small, (Backwaters Press), and a novella, Dead Girl, Live Boy, (Storylandia Press). Her work has appeared in Iowa Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Threepenny Review, and elsewhere. She has just finished a book of photographs titled Illusion Warehouse.
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