Jammed in his gray face,
their light burned out, fallen in.
Did it happen like a light bulb:
Pop! then nothing? How much
grief funds another upsell—
pads death’s already ample margin?
Still, I want his dimmed eyes,
so I won’t see my mother
(who can’t get out of bed)
or the gaping hole in the Gulf,
namesake of Marquez’s Macondo,
so big that satellites track
black plumes of oil from space
—or the bees in the walls
of the house at the river
we can’t yet sell—all 150,000
stowaways droning between
its dormers—the whole house
become a great, buzzing skull.
When we climbed up to the attic
honey oozed through humming walls.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 5.
Hailing from Eugene Walter’s Kingdom of Ghosts and Monkeys, John Miller was sent so frequently to look up words as a kid he toted a dictionary to supper. His poems have appeared in Poetry South, Anti-Heroin Chic, and elsewhere. Paper Nautilus Press published his chapbook, Heat Lightning, in 2017.
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