by Michelle DeRose
Things too small to hold
today’s news: the fingernail
of a newborn, sharpened
tip of this pencil, a candle
flame, our old Tom’s purr.
The last breath of a dissolving
mint, the dog’s white brow
curling in her brown patch.
The chip of slate my six
year-old once passed me.
Hold it in your hand and it will soothe
you, he said. And it does.
today’s news: the fingernail
of a newborn, sharpened
tip of this pencil, a candle
flame, our old Tom’s purr.
The last breath of a dissolving
mint, the dog’s white brow
curling in her brown patch.
The chip of slate my six
year-old once passed me.
Hold it in your hand and it will soothe
you, he said. And it does.
Michelle DeRose, Professor Emerita of English, lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her poetry won the Chancellor's Prize in 2024 and the Faruq Z Bey award in 2023 from the Poetry Society of Michigan, and her chapbooks were finalists in the 2023 and 2024 Michigan Writers Cooperative Press competition.
