Rite
n. A religious or semi-religious ceremony fixed by law, precept or custom
with the essential oil of sincerity carefully squeezed out of it.
—Ambrose Bierce
Two twenty-somethings
two years as honeys
under a gray-blue blanket
of Florida December sky
we stand—courthouse statue
looming over our too-thin
shoulders in this one photograph
of our wedding, snapped
by the justice of the peace in
St. Augustine, where we didn’t
need witnesses, so there was
no risk of offending any left
out relatives or friends.
You never asked if I was
one of those kids who’d
spun gauzy fantasies
cocooned teen dreams
of bank-breaking weddings.
I would have said, The vows
are all that matters. Maybe then
you would have kept them.
*
I Spell out Divorce in Pixie-stick Sugar across Our Kitchen Floor
after Jenny Holzer
You’ll be able to read it by
your own gaslight, so it won’t
matter that the power’s out
at the old country house to
which you’ve been booted
after unburdening yourself
across the dinner table tonight,
corduroyed mule, confessing
adultery before fixing a next
bite of the six o’clock supper
missed from the plate saved,
microwaved after kissing you
hello with half of my hair styled
by our four-year-old before I
tucked her into cartoon-covered
sheets alone, plastic menagerie
of Starburst-colored animal
barrettes forgotten until you’ve
left when brushing my teeth, I
startle at the mirror, can’t help
but laugh.
*
Jill Michelle is the author of Underwater (Riot in Your Throat, 2025) and Shuffle Play (Bottlecap, 2024) and winner of the 2023 NORward Prize for Poetry from New Ohio Review. Her newest work is forthcoming in RHINO Poetry, Salamander Magazine and Scavengers Literary Magazine. She teaches at Valencia College in Orlando, Florida. Find more at byjillmichelle.com.
Beautiful, honest poems.