Michele M Miller holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona. Prizes awarded for her poetry include an Arizona Commission on the Arts fellowship, and her thesis manuscript, “The Cinderella Heart,” was chosen runner-up for the National Poetry Series, and the Kore Press First Book Prize. Michele writes and photographs in her heartland, the Sonora desert of Tucson, Arizona.
PRAISE:
If there is a museum vast enough to hold worlds both real and imagined—and small enough to carry away in your pocket with all of its lovers, creatures, shards and wonders still shaking inside it—Michele M Miller’s debut chapbook is it. Miller’s poems alternately lull us to dreaming and slap us awake with a strangely familiar voice—the throbbing voice of a god in the mouth of a caterpillar—guiding us through a place where all that makes us human sits still but not quietly, daring us to look and be changed.
–Stacey R. Forbes, author of Little Thistles, winner of the 2023 New Women’s Voices Series Prize from Finishing Line Press
The Pocket Museum of Natural History is an erotic curation of confessions, litanies, odes and siren songs that fill a mythopoeic cabinet of curiosity, invention, and radiance. Disinterred histories, rarified ruminative moments, and scientific facts evoke a found world: rough-hewn and familiar, alive with death and discovery. Miller invites us to open a compendium of loss, desire, and the superfamilies of butterflies, at once elegant yet teetering on the cusp of outrageousness. She is keen to speak the language of the sublime, a voice for those otherwise muted by indifference or oversight: she is not afraid to take on the point of view of fossil fishes, an aging lepidopterist consumed by love for his moth, an exotic snail, or simple stones: I can’t allow these tokens to decompose /into simply shapes, or remember meaning / I thought was true and is no longer. The math of memory, intimacy, grief, and perspectives of both giving and getting—plus whatever vastness lies between—operates, in Miller’s poems, like the poles of a magnet.
–Rebecca Byrkit, author of Whoa and Zealand
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