Tag Archives: Jennifer Stewart Miller

To the Dead Striped Bass Swimming in Sunset
by Jennifer Stewart Miller

Swim on, beached beauty, agog
in the chilly marsh, aglow without
scales or skin. May the jut
of your jaw, your eyeless eyes,
guide you back to the sea. May
your body—filleted of flesh—
follow so lightly. Long, supple,
golden spine. Ribs vaulted with
air and light. Moony-white tail.
Even the waves lap you a prayer—
undulate, undulate. Striped bass—
gather up my newly dead, school
with them, show them the way
out of the still-dead April grass.

 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 1.

Jennifer Stewart MillerJennifer Stewart Miller holds an MFA from Bennington College and a JD from Columbia University. Her poetry has appeared in Green Mountains Review, Harpur Palate, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Jabberwock Review, Raleigh Review, and other journals. She’s a Pushcart nominee, the author of A Fox Appears: a biography of a boy in haiku (self-published 2015), and lives in New York.

See all items about Jennifer Stewart Miller

Visit Jennifer Stewart Miller’s contributors page.

Volume 17, Issue 3 is Now Online

CPR Volume 17, Issue 3Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 3 is now online. Enjoy new poems by M. Ross Henry, Carmen Germain, Catherine Moore, Erin Rodoni, Sarina Bosco, Diana Smith Bolton, SarahJordan Stout, Christina Seymour, Jan Bottiglieri, Sara Henning, Allison Joseph, Corrie Williams Kentner, Anthony Botti, Kathleen Brewin Lewis, Doug Ramspeck, Elise Gregory, Julia Bouwsma, Knud Sorensen (Translated by Michael Goldman), Jess Williard, Adam Penna, Jennifer Stewart Miller, Katie Manning, Eloisa Amezcua, Givhan Jennifer, Ann E. Michael, Simon Perchik, Sara Biggs Chaney, Jacqueline Balderrama, Alessandra Bava, Tina Richardson, and Alina Stefanescu. Reviews of Spencer Reece, Laura Madeline Wiseman, and Anne Marie Macari by David Seter, Corrinne Adams, and Cindy Snow.

On Seeing
by Jennifer Stewart Miller

Genus Planaria—tiny flatworms found under rocks in streams and ponds

Sunlight glints off two upside-down shiny
tin trash can lids and off the water that fills
and fills them from a garden hose:
the water shivers in these silvery pools.

My mother, cross-legged, hunches over the lids,
recording what her flatworms are doing—
for this experiment, she’s chopped off
their heads—killed them—No, no,
she explains, their heads grow back—
you can even cut them in half.
Sunlight
flashes too brightly off the water, off
the new metal, and she says, Look, do you see
how they’re turning away, how they don’t need
eyes to see the sun?

And this is the world, always, my whole life,
this brightness—Look, Mom, no eyes!
I know where the sun is.
But now I see
where they were going all along—their sun
is under rocks—it’s the dark that shines.
 

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 3.

Jennifer Stewart MillerJennifer Stewart Miller grew up in Vermont and California, and now lives in Bronxville, New York. She holds an MFA from Bennington College and a J.D. from Columbia University. In past lives, she’s practiced law, served as a court-appointed advocate for a boy in foster care, dated clay tobacco pipes, and fought forest fires. Her first book, A Fox Appears: a biography of a boy in haiku, is forthcoming, and she is at work on her second collection of poetry.

See all items about Jennifer Stewart Miller

Visit Jennifer Stewart Miller’s contributors page.