COLLATERAL
The last wolves hide under the roots of a fallen
Aleppo Pine. They howl in unresponsive darkness
mourn the losses of their territory,
their mates, their communities.
They drink from kerosene streams rainbowed
with chemicals, scavenge collateral carcasses,
but crave fresh hunted meat,
A lost spaniel and a befuddled poodle wander nearby;
recognizing kin, the wolves make overtures
but there is no scent, no fecundity,
everything has been neutered. The wolves drive
the dogs to revert, lick them clean,
feed them like puppies, then bind them
into a yapping feral squad chasing after
the wild boar snorting in the dirt
and pine needles.
They starve with full
bellies, for all the death
that feeds them, they
are empty with longing.
THE NIGHT BOAT
Each night I board this scull
shaped like a slipper, its surface tight
as the skin of a goatfish
a wake of watery sparks light
years of memories flowing from the past.
Time and space slide by my mossy coracle
with no visible means of power.
I give in to this cockleshell dinghy
that envelops me, lets my mind wander;
the insomnia that breaks
warm sleepiness, fragments it into squander
Someone is steering. I think it is death
but maybe it’s freedom in this privateer flower.
Trawling though marriages relationships false starts
zoom meetings streaming funerals what I should have said
would have said. Did my words break hearts?
These home waters are deep, over my head,
I know more now. I would like to dive
off this tub into liberation,
where every face is a kind one
a miracle of change
eyes shining from an inner sun
lips held in sweet blessing
affection on each countenance.
That would be worth staying awake.
YOUR HANDS LIKE BIRDS
When they throw you into the arms
of accessibility named Cressida
who will explode first?
The mistaken medical practice across
the street or the poker palace
you discover it has been all along?
After shaking off the dregs of sleep
pack up because you can’t stay/heal
where you are hurt.
At the ends of your arms
your hands like birds picking
strands, dropping twisted flax
flailed into fabric woven of desert floor
one storied layer/year on another
from trees tall against an antiquity sky.
Tough discarded loops of loss
pulled apart, sorted into prickly
wishbone decay.
Your feet like swaying sea fans dry as dust.
You could pry these shapes off the wall
one at a time, wear them ordered
on a string around your neck.
Artifact jewels set into skin,
an organic shine.
MaryAnn L. Miller is the author of Falling into the Diaspora (Finishing Line Press 2023), Time is a Snake’s Tongue (CW Books 2023), Cures for Hysteria (FLP 2018) and Locus Mentis (PS Books 2012.) has been thrice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Recently her painting “Woman with Migrants” appeared in Big Wing Review. Her collection Falling into the Diaspora has been reviewed in Mom Egg Review. Miller is interested in exploring intersections of cultures.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 