Tag Archives: Amanda J. Miller

Sixteen years and I still want you to hold my doors and God bless every sneeze. It’s okay that we don’t say excuse me anymore, we wedge our way between each other some- times with words and others with our … Continue reading →

We have exchanged our green bodies for rattling skeletons. Windy circles pluck our bones, scatter paper gems over kaleidoscope carpets. They wax our veins in tin cans, red brick crayons, pin their prizes to icy boxes with plastic letter magnets. … Continue reading →

hell- bent mad woman twists braids in mourning young morning grass wet sliding through her fretful fingers above the below a young grave memories still of white wrists burping blood questions if her daughter has gone above or below hell- … Continue reading →

I saw a seagull flying this morning. It dipped, turned so that its bird body disappeared against the gray morning sky. I had a red kite when I was young. Lifeless thin plastic drew breath, lifted quickly into the air … Continue reading →

I found this poem in an untitled crossword where Thighs and Ladles joined in one slender S that reminds me of the way you lay on your side, your hips rising up from your waist then curving slowly down into … Continue reading →

Holding a conch shell in your left hand, you say “Listen.” But I don’t want to listen to the conch, I want to taste it, swallow the ocean in salty             gulps. The waves in our lives have been             soothing at … Continue reading →

A congregation of fiery flames – the only source of light in this church of starless night. Smoky incense of cherry and cedar, embers pulsing red and orange. Wood cracks and pops, falls into vanishing heaps of gray ash, erasing … Continue reading →

Green leaves rustle, reach toward noon summer sun. Hot, damp, air carries the scent of rich soil and compost. Shadows, blue and navy dance along the swaying stalks buried deep in the ground, an invisible umbilical cord to Mother Earth. … Continue reading →