About the Feature

Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash


Something there, smaller and meaner than before—
where the palm of the hand rests on the collarbone—
ails me. I’m sure that’s where the shame is.

How it shrank like an old walnut, what was once
the locust-heart of summer. The meadowlark’s
V for victory over the yellow days. Turn and turn,

and turn it over. Little turtle of remorse. My voice
smells woody like pine needles and moving
water. There’s so much of me I didn’t build at all.

About the Author

Mirande Bissell is a writer and teacher who lives outside of Baltimore in the Patapsco River Valley. Her first book of poems, Stalin at the Opera, was published in 2021.