Gravity Heat (Photograph, 1981)

Poetry by ​Kate Michaelson

Northeast Ohio Writer

​I wear my light blue sleeper, the one
with the white vinyl feet, and sit 
beside my dad on the velveteen couch
drinking the dregs of his Old Milwaukee, 
my fingers flecked with the crumbs 
of his chips, cheeks flushed and greasy— 
cause downstairs is always overwarm, 
cause we’ve got nothing but gravity to haul 
the heat upstairs. The windows are winter 
dark already, and I’m sure after God-
knows-how-many bottoms of beers,
I was put to bed early. But how 
I was happy with the dregs of his time, the here 
and the there of five kids scrapping, 
the farm, the sting of wind rushing 
the bare fields, and him off
to cast tire molds at dawn.
Winter nights, I’d drag the blankets 
from my bed, and curl like a kitten 
on the register. Over that warm spot, 
I’d cup my body, learning how 
to catch the never-enough that rose.

Kate Micaelson

Kate Michaelson is the IPPY-Award-winning author of the mystery Hidden Rooms. Her short fiction and poems have appeared in River Teeth, The Laurel Review, and Free Verse. She lives with her husband in Ohio. You can connect with her on Instagram at @katemichaelsonwriter or at www.katemichaelsonwriter.com.