Michael Allen Turner
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Michael Allen Turner has an MFA in Creative Writing from Rutgers University-Newark. His poems appear in Barrelhouse and he is an editor of Growler, an online publication, which reviews first books of poetry and fiction, where his reviews also appear. ► Michael's book is available for printing. See below and click on the PDF icon.
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Poems |
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| Bad Girl Gone Badder | ||
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Click title to download microchap
Michael Allen Turner © 2010 • |
Little Red’s Basket of Eyes, Necklace of BonesShe collects eyes, especially wolves’ eyes where domestication curdles on the cornea and pupils flood with kill light. Each pair leads to more bones dangling off her punctured neck. She rattles hollow, while the restless reeds succumb in her basket’s herringbone pattern, so forget their whispering while holding water’s edge, now they lull pupils to pinpoints. She’s chicken wire grown into bark—made to look purposefully impossible. Several skeletons burrow under her skin to try to curl onto her brainstem. They alter her breathing, increase salivation, make her lonely for the pack, mix the tale with digestive juices—the ladle coming down like an answer |
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Little Red Goes In For Elective SurgeryWe can never kiss. You with a blue square that covers your mouth, and me, just anatomy. The sky is held with four strings and this turns my knees inside out. I wouldn't be able to understand your coffee breath, the way you leave incisions on the table, tiny yawns which need to be pinned. You have the drip, and I the beep, another representation. — and there I go What have you done with the crowd's chorus, that small cloud of outliers that I still haven't gotten over? Can you, for once, bring the dirt to me |
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Little Red Embraces Militant FeminismIt gave up its water to hold water. This basket of dried reeds held worn - to her head as she travels the well path trodden by many women. This is the greatest palimpsest effect, a sentence laid out from their doors in well. One woman's footprints - to the seeped alone would not be enough to bevel and harden the earth, she would know, too well, the stomped out story. On the path there's a cacophony of sentences spliced together and just one woman hoping her basket springs a leak to muddy the stew. Or she hopes for a river, one that rages with the memory of its birth, the scent locked away for some season to come and release it. She will not boil the water this time, she will come home as all things come home, with the desire to create or destroy. |
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Little Red Therered to the Bed She makes the raft to handle the to and fro. |
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| Little Red Considers SymmetryBirds flit forth, half coursing with color - one the other white as Little Red’s dream bubble where they pass presenting stiff plumage, asking for horse hair to nest. Only one eye is needed for flight, but the birds expose halves and draw - their white — the violence towards the head pencil circling for symmetry, where the other eye should be. |
Shulla Sannella is a poet and writer living and working in northern Rhode Island and Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts. She is a graduate of the University of Rhode Island where she majored in English and Journalism. Published locally in The Newport Review and Crone’s Nest Magazine she has also been published in the international poetry magazine, Bogg, and is the author of two chapbooks, Beach Poems and Desire.
