Amy Meckler

Amy Meckler received her MFA in creative writing from Hunter College, where she garnered the Academy of American Poets Award, among other honors. Her poems have appeared widely in literary journals and anthologies. Her first collection, What All the Sleeping Is For, won the 2002 Defined Providence Press Poetry Book Award and was published that year. She works in New York City as a Sign Language interpreter. Amy also blogs at You Have Spinach In Your Teeth. She is also the Poetry Editor for Revolving Floor. See all of Amy's Revolving Floor contributions.

Juliet Explains
Lilith Comments

The sight of a woman undressing no longer interests Jim. After eight years of watching the security monitors at a certain Midtown women’s clothing store, Jim has seen every state of undress, every awkward position: crouching, leaning, squeezing, sliding in and out of skirts, pants, shirts, dresses, bras. Everything, except what he expected when he took the job. Never has a leggy blonde, or exotic, swollen-lipped brunette, slipped off her shirt to reveal a transparent camisole, cupped her breasts one in each hand and felt their full weight without a bra to collect them in a proper place. Not once has a woman looked up to the camera, noticed the security eye gazing down at her, opened her eyes wide in shock then contracted them in a dirty stare, smiled a wicked proposition and mouthed very slowly, Hi Jim. How’s it going?

Eurydice Follows

In one retelling, the angel comes too late
and Isaac suffers the blade on the altar.
In another, he descends three days after,
born new in ash. Or was it Ishmael, white
robed and copper skinned, almost to Abraham’s height
when kneeling, true favorite son, who filtered
faith through shame? Sand in his eyes, who watched his father’s
hand midair, unsheathed, then God’s brusque tone, Wait?
See them gather at their father’s tomb, each grieving
son hero in rival histories. One still smells
ram burning in his place; one recalls the bending

Tic-Tac-Toe-Playing Chicken, Retired

Jonathan and Patrick returned from Paris to this note:
We found your chicken one block over
and put her back in your yard.

And there she was brooding in the thick weeds
of their fenced-in yard, warming three eggs,
lonely, but somewhat at home.

The thing is, they didn’t own a chicken,
yet something about their country-style home
suggested to their neighbors a hen house in the garage.