Even though it’s impossible,
I know he conjured that squall.
Maybe the fuss embarrassed him,
or perhaps it was his idea of a joke.
July’s sky scorched to blue haze,
a soaring gray thunderhead
scoured the air above the funeral.
Cold, marble-fat raindrops pelted
down as a faerie ring of umbrellas
scattered from his grave.
That night I dreamt my father walked
his camellia garden with a basketful
of pink and white blooms crooked
in the elbow of his pale blue corduroy.
I woke under the dream’s sway and nearly
dashed into summer’s teeming dark.
Months later, I am pinned beneath
his naked corpse and wake gasping.
Sleepless, I read from our good book
that grief stems from the same root
as gravity and understand anew
what it means to bear the heft of loss.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 4.
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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