Five Stanzas on Service
In seventh year I walked to the 7-11 without shoes, hopped from shelled street to lawn. Honeysuckle choked two mailboxes, only two. Oak leaves spun delinquent, lifted in a microcyclone waist high.
A pile of books on the table. German, Mexican, Russian, Persian. All English. What the languages say, under influence of capital. A pair of gin and tonics, not at all weak. We hope to calm our coughing. Green onion flossed from our teeth.
The suffering of transit. Weave of gold thread, wide pockets for nose rags, baht and zlotys no longer in service.
I hope to finish watching this show. Give me two episodes a day. Every one a backhoe rented for rough earth.
Rehearsal tonight. The singers are asked to cheer, a string of huzzahs. Arms wide, rictus of piracy. A pale grey gulf bird, perched on the theater roof. Now I reach out, fold its bony cry in my left hand. Easy, no struggle. Under my fingers, feathers say: police, the police. Blue dye, a mark of marks. The truest thing known.
Halfway House (after Kaveh Akbar, “Wake Me Up When It’s My Birthday”) They sold the hunting dogs when father was sick. Told me the sibling beasts would have wide land to wander, inland. A buoy keeping time towards shore. And what name did he give those Labradors? No memory of his drinking, chewing. As if the body had already lost interest. I scour the skillet to clarity. Save this spoon—wrap it in newsprint. How many lost, to slow steadiness. The curve of cuticle. Scum and scrim. An end of schooling, now.
James Miller is a native of the Texas Gulf Coast, now settled in Oklahoma City. His work has appeared in Best Small Fictions (2021), San Pedro River Review, Heavy Feather Review, Bending Genres, Identity Theory, The Ilanot Review, Sugar House Review, Door is a Jar, JMWW, Faultline, The Atlanta Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Psaltery & Lyre, CV2, and elsewhere. Follow on Twitter @AndrewM1621. Website: jamesmillerpoetry.com.