Missi Rasmussen




Look out the window

Look at me

Drag me to you by

our held hands

Give me a lewd squeeze

and make the queens

say get a room

My thoughts are slippery

Perfect for interrogation

Poets should make love

with other poets

In the wee hours

of the morning

When it’s still dark

but with just enough

time to finish

as the sun is coming up.

“Jack and Eve”






Single White Female

Single, solitary, one

completely isolated;

a misfit.

White. Like a fucking sheet?

Like bloodshot eyes?

Like an angel’s attire?


A living being in pastel


who received more sympathy

with a scraped knee.

Male followers


I was supposed to sing

and dance and never

show my panties.

I wasn’t supposed to

wear black.

What about my parents?

What about my shrinks,

my out-of-school suspensions?

What about my journals?

Now I watch races, go to

symphonies, and eat candy.

Serious inquiries


“Single Solitary One”



Missi Rasmussen is a poet and writer whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals, anthologies, and e-zines. She was educated at Park University in Parkville, Missouri and is the Founder and President of the Kansas City Chapter of the Missouri Poetry Society. She lives in
Kansas City with her son and daughter.



2 Comments on “Missi Rasmussen”

  1. brenda conley Says:

    Missi, great as usual. going through some of this with a close friend.

  2. Nomad Says:

    You asked me once, “what did you think of my reading?” You blinked twice at my response. Pulled your head back. As if you heard a distant gunshot. The look. I’ve seen before. I said, “I was wrapped up in the audience. How they react to you. The side conversations stop. The stuck-ups lower the thier masks. The scorned, lower thier mirrors. The figgity. Stop staring at thier angry untied shoelaces. They all hold thier breath. Because if they breath, they might not hear it all. Partly because you whisper. Partly because you’re beautiful. Mostly because you’re so fucking talented.”You have the look. As if you just ate beef by gunpoint. “I wanted to know what you thought of my poem. Weren’t you listening?”

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