You could have a big dipper   

Red by Matthew Miller




Even when I speak their name, their ears don’t redden.

They can’t remember. They are goldfish swimming in

circles. I am watermelon, seeded with new life that

everyone spits out. I grow best where things die. Red

autumn maple, clipped stems of sidelot thorns,

deadheaded rose. Slowly heated by what remains. I am red

inside. They clip red wires, even when they don’t know

what will detonate. I’ve slapped up so many stop signs that

get ignored. I often forget they are red inside too.


Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry - all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review and Ekstasis Magazine. Twitter: @mattleemiller32

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