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About this poet

Michele Wolf was raised in South Florida. She received a BS in public communication from Boston University and an MS in journalism from Columbia University. She is the author of Immersion (The Word Works, 2011) and Conversations During Sleep (Anhinga Press, 1998), winner of the 1997 Anhinga Prize for Poetry. Wolf has received fellowships from the Arts and Humanities Council of Montgomery County, Maryland; the Edward F. Albee Foundation; and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, among others. She teaches at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland.

The Great Tsunami

She recognizes its crest in the way he looks at her.
The wave is as vast as the roiling mass in the Japanese
Print they had paused in front of at the museum,
Capped with ringlets of foam, all surging sinew.
That little village along the shore would be
Totally lost. There is no escaping this.
The wave is flooding his heart, 
And he is sending the flood 
Her way. It rushes 
Over her.

Can you look at one face
For the whole of a life?

Does the moon peer down 
At the tides and hunger for home?

Copyright © 2001 Michele Wolf. This poem originally appeared in Poetry, June 2001, and also appeared in Immersion (The Word Works, 2011) by Michele Wolf. Used with permission of the author. 

Copyright © 2001 Michele Wolf. This poem originally appeared in Poetry, June 2001, and also appeared in Immersion (The Word Works, 2011) by Michele Wolf. Used with permission of the author. 

Michele Wolf

Michele Wolf

Michele Wolf is the author of Immersion (The Word Works, 2011). She teaches at The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland.

by this poet

poem
It flares up at sunrise, a blush in a bramble
Tumbling out of its bed by the city pavement—a single
Rose, coral heat, at the end of the season.			
And you are drawn to it, to its scent, its silky
Layers, to its core. It gathers you into its 
Body until you lose your balance, all you can see	
Is a petaled grid, an
poem
When I held smooth the satin to zip
Up your wedding dress, frosted with flounces 
And pearl-beaded filigree, a rococo
Confection more sugary than the cake,
And watched as you swiveled slowly to face
Me—all floaty notes, pure flute—so still
As I situated the baby’s breath and the veil,
How could I have told you
poem
The little one listens but never reveals
What she knows. By day she controls the light
That filters across the roofs, through
Trees, on furrows of plaintive faces.
She wakes up alone and unlocks
Cabinets of light, allots the portions
Strictly, patiently hears requests
For additional rays. What a job.
She has to