In The Bones in the Garden (and other things found there), Elizabeth Michaud acts as our collective story keeper. She guides us through the scars left by American slavery, the caves and crevices of fantastical creatures, and the simple rooms where love can liberate us. This is a varied offering interweaving passion, pain, and folklore, like cream dissolving into coffee.
In this second collection of poetry, Michaud continues her narrative journey in verse. She grounds her work in truth and verve, drawing upon the hard facts of world history and the tender details of her own archive. When Michaud writes, “Tell no one of the bones / buried deep within the garden,” it is because she will be the one to tell. Watch her lay bare the horrific yet beautiful bones of her ancestors, of our world, of us all.