Amy Miller

Poetry is the horse jumping the pasture gate. You trained it, you taught it so carefully to jump those fussy little fences, and here it rewards you by bolting off to parts unknown. If you’re lucky, people will see it running and say, “That is one badass crazy horse.”

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After Heavy Snow, February

My bootprints
back and forth across the yard
mingled with
a dog’s

        he burst in
        through the pickets’
        back gap
        black lab
        white chest
        head up
        and
        head-
        long
        stopped
        to poop in a corner, saw me

standing there
holding a saw
over the dead
limb
of birch that took
the fenceboard down

        he fixed me
            with both eyes
        ran
            back out
            into the pines

 

For the Ladies

“For sale: sanders, lathes, jointers, electric motors. 
And for the ladies: household items, quilts, and furniture.” 
                    —garage sale ad


Free weights, dumbbells.
Small bottles of solvent.
A 12-gauge and 200 clays.
A pickaxe with a shaky head.
A trench, a row, a rivulet.
A block and tackle.
Your very own barn.
A cliff, a rope, a fallen bird.
Ten thousand pounds of pressure.
A long, feathered night at the Lay-Z Inn.
A baby, no accessories.
Twenty-seven years in Lompoc.
A personalized semi-personal love song.
A trip you were asked not to take.
A treeline and a trail.
Warm stones in your sleeping bag.
All of Alaska.
The cliff you were told not to climb.
The climbing.

 

Lady’s-Slipper

After we fought
you brought me an orchid
                small balloon
like a frog’s throat
                frozen

we were in
                a deep
                green
                wood
                wires
of nettles and brambles

it’s illegal to pick them,
you said,
                the flower floating
                severed
                surprised
on a brown stem

as if
                you would
                kill
                you would bend
                the law
                into
                a locket

and leave it
in a red box
                inside
my screen door
                at dawn

you did that
                once

 

"After Heavy Snow, February" first published in the anthology Turn
"Lady's-Slipper" first published in Willow Springs

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Amy Miller’s poetry has appeared in Bellingham Review, Nimrod, Rattle, Spillway, Willow Springs, and ZYZZYVA. She has been a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize and the 49th Parallel Award, and won the Poetry Storehouse First Anniversary Contest for videopoems and the Cultural Center of Cape Cod National Poetry Competition, judged by Tony Hoagland. She works as an editor and publications manager for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and blogs at writers-island.blogspot.com.