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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.

Pocono Lakeside

As I was guided by the director through the thick space
Of these rooms, worn sparrow brown, and strode
With the August sun on my shoulders across this particular
Acre of grass, nobody had told me this was the place
Where you had summered as a boy. I have weathered
My fourth decade, older now than you were 
When you died. I can barely remember you, yet I can see 
You not as my father but as my son. You are age nine.
The downpour divides into two massive stage curtains			
Parting. You bolt from the bunk, loudly racing 
With your chums down the slippery hill to the dock, 
Your cape of a towel flapping as if ready to lift you airborne. 

You are the smallest. Still, you always run in the front.
You do not know how beautiful you are, of course, squinting 
Against the sun, the flame that escapes behind the gray				
Vapor for hours, sometimes for days. You cannot see				
That from the beginning it has been eyeing you from afar,
That it has focused its golden spotlight just for you.

Copyright © 2000 Michele Wolf. This poem originally appeared in Poetry, February 2000, and also appeared in Immersion (The Word Works) by Michele Wolf. Used with permission of the author. 

Copyright © 2000 Michele Wolf. This poem originally appeared in Poetry, February 2000, and also appeared in Immersion (The Word Works) 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
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
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
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