From my untitled series on love, sex and relationships. As always, critiques are welcome. Getting Stirred Up You’re one tall, cool drink of water.Let me inject you with CO2shake you gently;it’s been so long since I’ve seen you dance.Bubble forth. Remind me what it is to laugh. by Michelle Beltano Curtis All Rights Reserved. “Getting Stirred Up” may not be reprinted without permission. Advertisements Continue reading Getting Stirred Up
This poem comes from my untitled series about love, sex and relationships. While it doesn’t quite fit what I’m doing with the other poems in the series, it’s a counterbalance of sorts and will represent either a change or break in the poems. To be honest, I’m not sure I love the poem as much as the person it’s about, but when my critiquing buddy … Continue reading The Last Man
A poem about losing my ability to write and how I struggled with the dying of such rich inner-beauty and my inability to let it out. For all the writers whose lives and careers are interrupted like mine. Includes a nature photo I took at Red River Gorge. Continue reading Interludes
This post includes both a poem and a self-portrait. “Attempting Perfection is a prose poem about self-image and body dysmorphia, while the photograph demonstrates feeling invisible due to severe illness. Continue reading Attempting Perfection & Disappearing Spoonie
by Michelle Beltano Curtis You’ve abandoned me my friend, you—my religion—in my crisis, my greatest time of need. My peril of spirit and body slipping away from the world with all that it used to mean. Without you, I am nothing, nothing, no joy, no quake, no death, no rebirth, no release. You do not reel me in, do not free me. You do not … Continue reading La Petit Mort
I’m Not Your Seventies Tragedy is a poem from my untitled series in progress about family dysfunction. Continue reading Original Poetry: I’m Not Your Seventies Tragedy
Jeremiah fell into his padded leather chair, his breath escaping in a long huff. He felt the constraint of his tie, his suit coat, set one aside, loosened the other. His gaze was focused on a photo on his desk. He and Anne posed precariously over a long deep crevice in the sandstone of Rockbridge, each in their own brand of mock teetering, arms and hands spread wide and flailing, eyes glinting. The happy times before her illness began. He picked up the photo. It must have been the fiftieth time in three days. Heaviness clouded his chest and he unbuttoned his stiff collar. It took everything he had to drag himself to work now. There was no motivation. No future family. No Anne.
Swiveling his chair around from his desk, he hurls the photo in its heavy wooden frame, smashing the thick glass of his window, identical to every other in the 23 story building of steel girders and glass, running from floor to ceiling. It shatters, tinkles as it drops like a hundred wind chimes… Continue reading Short Fiction: Gifting Purpose