Post-Modern Achilles is a Fork: A Poem

I am the fork that you made plunge
into the ravioli can.
Around me, whitish meat-filled sponge,
upon sensing my spearhead, ran.
Their terror only fueled my rage
and bolstered my battle-fury.
Their tremors, released from their cage
of calories, all strengthened me.
Victory was sweet and soft;
plunder, swift and merciless.
You guided me, and, as oft,
your bold decree became my bliss.
The masses fled, but soon harpooned
were all their moist and fleshy squares.
Yet it the sink, I was marooned
among the plastic dinnerwares.
Here I, of metal, was alone
to contemplate caloric rout.
No killing skills had I to hone
in this deep place of damp and doubt
I lacked a friend; no guiding hand
would surge up from the quiet pipes.
I missed your fingers in this land
where not a soul could share my gripes.
But I sensed something by my tine
That offered light in this grey grave:
aluminum, a friend of mine,
had joined me in this dull enclave.
Perhaps this soldier could be spared
a tortured, lonely existence;
perhaps the ions that we shared
were, from your greatness, recompense.
I called the way a brave fork must
upon encountering its kind.
I cried through my tomato crust,
not fearing once my own chagrin.
the metal that I longed to greet
ignored my desperate please at first—
a silence I refused to meet,
that did not serve to curb my thirst.
My clamor grew; the plastic quaked
beneath my salutations’ strength,
‘till the compatriot I staked
responded solemnly at length. Continue reading “Post-Modern Achilles is a Fork: A Poem”

Sitting Next to You in the Backseat of the Rental Minivan: A Poem

We watched the pink eyelid of nighttime
close to the West. I did my best
to squeeze my knees together, but you
couldn’t keep your legs to yourself:
With all of your weight perched on your opposite elbow,
you twisted your hips towards me––
at the precipice of this sunset
our thighs touched in the backseat.

I can remember your pantyhose,
the bit of clear nail polish
you used to heal the run at the base of your skirt,
a little above where we were connected
full of silence and heat.
The warmth we shared
would have been stifling at a larger scale,
but in this moment it was acceptable, even
desirable, albeit through layers
of itchy polyester and the ever-present stare
sideways, out to the river, out
to the lights reflected on the water,
flickering and stirring with the waves.

When you shifted, a chill swept into the chasm
between the two of us,
and it made me think of birds:
in the moments before a storm, air pressure
drops, and all of Aves knows
to be afraid. For them,
the frozen gusts coming from above are an alarm,
swift and cold and sure. For me, in that instant,
the backseat was far from claustrophobic:
an expanse peeled open, dark
and breathless, endless and alone.
The white and yellow highway lines
rolled out forever, spitting towards
an impossibly distant horizon.
That night, it seems, we never stopped driving

and you were far away.
The only thing I knew then was absence,
your absence, a threat
that was entirely hollow, but not without energy,
crackling like lightning in the distance,
simultaneously empty and torrential, dark matter
over robin’s eggs. The run in your pantyhose
split, growing butterfly eyelashes
black and stringy, with an observant pupil
as disquiet as the highway beneath tires.
The city lights stopped moving
on the water. I couldn’t see you.


As you may have noticed, I haven’t been posting much poetry recently. Counterintuitively, this is a result of the fact that I am taking a poetry workshop at my college.

The vast majority of the poems I’m working on right now are for that class, and since it’s a workshop, I am continually revising and improving them. As such, I haven’t really created a finalized product in a while. It’s just been about the process––but, rest assured, that process is producing some really cool stuff.

To anyone who actually pays attention to/cares at all about what I do here on mikkiaaron: know that some HQ writings are on their way. If you feel dismayed (or even betrayed) by my poetic shortfall, then know that I will make up for it before long with quality to outmatch quantity.

That’s right, kids. Mikki’s coming back.

And she’s gonna pack a punch.

Ciao for now,

P.S. This does not mean that I won’t be posting at all until I turn in my final portfolio. It just means it will be more infrequent than my lovely followers may be accustomed to.


Grey: A Poem


She possessed a certain softness,
a particular fleece of the soul––
the sort of gentleness that would open up for you
the way a great grey cumulonimbus
splits its blustery darkness
to make way for hot rain.
The wool of her spirit
was not that of the sheep––
it was sheered from a ram
in a lightning storm, woven
by Rumpelstiltskin into the semblance
of a turtleneck sweater,
concealing the howling electricity
of the wind and the crackle
of the lightning and the fiery scratch
of the hoof––indignant, defiant, newly naked––
against the crisp beige
of the long-droughted grass.

Groundhog and Shadow: A Poem


My mother is
within the ground.
Her soil womb
does not make sound.
I nestle into
blackish dirt;
inside of her
I cannot hurt.
but once each year
the men must know
if I will see
my own shadow.
And as they tug me
out of her,
relentless sunbeams
burn my fur;
I am laid
upon the earth,
the child of
inflicted birth;
then suddenly
appears a ghost,
the bluish spectre
I fear most:
its formless bounding
in the grass
(its undulating,
godless mass)
churns like thunder…
but it’s me.
Beneath my feet,
the ghoul I see
is only light
which I have stopped,
God’s intentions
I have chopped
before they landed
on the lawn.
I, entropy
have made a yawn
in greater plans
Than I should touch.
The beast below
will prove too much
for my faint heart—
I whip around.
The kindness of
the silent ground
is all I know.
It’s all I want.
My mother shelters
me from haunt.
The dark down here
could swallow men.
Not that they care.
They’ll kill me, then—
their inquiries
of coming spring
force me towards
a violent thing
I know no creature
should confront.
Mother, safety—
all I want.
I close my eyes,
knowing again
this time next year
I’ll meet the men.
I pray for my
so maybe next year
men will see.


In the third grade, I had my first stint with mental illness. My only real friend had just moved away, and no one wanted to play with me at recess. I was depressed, big time, and I was also working through grief at the loss of my friend. The stages were evident (retrospectively) in the narratives that went through my head as I tried to sleep. Some nights I would cry. Some nights I would invent stories in which who had abandoned me continued to wrong me; some nights I would scream my anger at her. At eight years old, I would spend some nights thinking seriously about death. But it wasn’t until the next school year that I started to understand that these thoughts were anything out of the ordinary. lonely-child-1024x678In the fourth grade, after she saw me hitting myself repeatedly during tests, my teacher sent me to weekly group sessions with the school counselor.

It’s gotten worse since then, but it’s also gotten better since then. My depression comes in waves. The stresses of elementary school, junior high, and high school all took their toll on me. So, too, has the unforgiving coldness of winter, as well as the unrelenting loneliness of summer. Depression is not a constant companion, but it is a consistent companion.

My anxiety, on the other hand, does not come in waves. They aren’t as bad as they could be, and I’m always learning to ways to negotiate with them, but they never leave. Ever. In fact, I’m not totally sure where my anxiety stops and my nervous personality begins. Fretting is ingrained into my very aspect.

I was born an anxious person. I was also born a sad person. That’s sort of my point, my raison d’être: to be anxious and sad. It makes me see things that other people ignore, and it allows me to be introspective. In that, mental illness is what makes me a writer. I’m only an artist because I was wired incorrectly at the factory.

Maybe I should be grateful. Continue reading “Awake”

The Magenta Stoplight: A Poem


A strand of cotton candy cloud
lingers on the sunset
like caramel on ice cream
or an ex-lover’s kiss on my cheek.
I’m in your car, on the way back from the party,
thinking I’ve done everything wrong;
the streetlamps are carpet-bombing us with yellow light
and dizzying uniformity.
When we come to the magenta stoplight,
which buzzes like one of the mosquitoes it’s ensnared,
I notice that the end-of-day wink is casting dim lavender
on the city’s bricks.
Midnight blue is encroaching from the East,
and the black spray-painted letters on the overpass
are as incoherent as radio static.
You turn to me, your hair orange and pink lit from behind—
your face grey.
You pull your hand from the steering wheel and reach it
towards my knuckles—which have been tight this whole time
like the braces I had removed in high school or an embrace
that you don’t realize until later will be your last—
and you’re soft with me, your skin like a butterfly
imploring a flower for permission to land.
For a moment, I want to give in—
stretch my petals out to you, offer you
my every inner sweetness—
but a glint of glassy green strikes your eye.
The whole world, it seems, is a candy box
and I can’t trust any of it.