The Works of Heather Ann Schmidt 

Heather Ann Schmidt is an adjunct professor at Oakland Community College. She edits tinfoildresses and is the editor/ founder of recycled karma press. Her poems have appeared in several journals and anthologies. She has also published some short stories and writes for the Oakland Press. Her books are Njaa (recycled karma press, 2009), Channeling Isadora Duncan (Gold Wake Press, 2009), The Bat's Lovesong: American Haiku (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2009), The Owl & the Muse: Collected Tanka (recycled karma press, 2009). Forthcoming are Transient Angels (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2010) and Cepheid Variables (Village Green Press, 2010). She holds an MFA in Poetry from National University and is pursuing her MA in English there as well. Currently, Ms. Schmidt is writing her first novel, Lessons From the Orient Express.


All Poems ¬© Heather Ann Schmidt


The Last Day of Summer


I make dresses out of bright red silk and wear the jade

for luck,

               for remembrance,

                                   for love I won't remember.

We escape....woven into the forgetting,

moving threads dragged under current--

our bodies and wrinkled waves

                move deeper into the clear brown.

Each grain of sand has a story to tell,

                                                            so we move our ears closer to the bottom

                  to hear muted words.


And my daughter becomes the sepia picture of my past

as I wonder if my mother had thoughts like this at forty.

How old will I see her become?

Will I remember her name?

Will she hold my hand even if we are strangers?

And with each breath we let go, 

our bones become softer.



The Soot Angel Goes Out in the Rain


I sought out a black marauder,
asked where the axe was
so I could chop wood behind the shed,


think my cave thoughts:

I know it is wrong to want his mouth on mine.


I HAVE IMAGINED....


how his (mouth) might miss (mine)
brushing a bottom lip


then the deepening.


I lie down and a hurricane passes over my body--
the wetness cannot penetrate my soaked skin.


I sit within the darkest corner
of myself
and long for his hands.


Will that marauder come and drop
more smoke and shrapnel around
my house on the corner?


will he knock at my door after 400 days

as if nothing was ever said?