• Poetry: 2 by Sarah Jane Miller

    Everyone’s Birthday

    A miraculous riverboat

    divides the clustered flock

    of walleye fish, those scaled lions

     

    ponderously vast. Here cries

    the lavender bud vying with the rose.

    Here is the indentation of heel

     

    pressed deep as the wader fades away,

    baptized by dirt clouds and moss. There

    is a summit here under the new June heat

     

    undisguised where humble plums

    are eaten on felled  stumps and naked

    bottles of second-rate wine are shared

     

    with southern gratitude. Thumps

    the shone pot drummer, hums the grass

    smoker, crooners the wet-faced  grinner. All

     

    are recent neighbors lounging

    in drunken shade speaking

    of the bawdy congregation,

     

    indecent brood who invites you

    to come too. Reeking

    of lilacs and smoked ham,

     

    they wave.

    You wave,

    too.

     

    The Crest of the Thing Perpetually Gleaming

    Like All Good Bones and Porcelain

     

    The bleached moon rises

    through lacerated haze,

    a chaffed elbow.

     

    Unencumbered by shoulder,

    the rote bone rises.

    The gauze

     

    of washcloths

    trail the white vessel

    through dark yards

     

    of Colonial homes,

    over sponge cake

    pink azaleas,

     

    slowly dragging

    reminiscence like

    a cold surface current.

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