James Miller
The Hours
I grill my first steak, so that
juices run under the knife.
Scrub the steel gratings in our kitchen
sink, coating the rough green sponge with flakes
of fleshed pitch. A thin strand of polyurethane
breaks off and dives into the soft skin
above my wrist. It burrows beneath
the surface, settles in
for a long visit.
December comes. We are hiking
in border deserts, to the chimney rocks
where ancient petroglyphs can still be seen,
though not read.
The hour out is easy: a wide trail
of rounded stones we can feel through
our new boots. Knee-high cairns of grey
and rust.
On the way back to the car,
our breathing is heavy. Wait a while,
you say at noon.
We stop for a long drink.
Even now I can’t close my left hand.
A red welt along the port
of entry. You lift me,
to your lips.
juices run under the knife.
Scrub the steel gratings in our kitchen
sink, coating the rough green sponge with flakes
of fleshed pitch. A thin strand of polyurethane
breaks off and dives into the soft skin
above my wrist. It burrows beneath
the surface, settles in
for a long visit.
December comes. We are hiking
in border deserts, to the chimney rocks
where ancient petroglyphs can still be seen,
though not read.
The hour out is easy: a wide trail
of rounded stones we can feel through
our new boots. Knee-high cairns of grey
and rust.
On the way back to the car,
our breathing is heavy. Wait a while,
you say at noon.
We stop for a long drink.
Even now I can’t close my left hand.
A red welt along the port
of entry. You lift me,
to your lips.
Nada Falta
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We ride out on the 13th of May,
well boiled. No bladder cancer, no militias,
no templar television specials.
In the last days, we knew only one language.
Swallowed light whole,
without chewing.
In the last days, we stocked 700 cans
of tomato soup, settled in
for a long wait.
All winter we read tales of uncanny humanoids, kind machines
who held our puffy faces in their cool
and perfect hands.
All winter, we contemplated yearly contracts and unlikely raises.
Duty to the presbytery, the honor of service.
We squeezed flame from slag and shale.
Bitter mothers who were mothers too soon,
too late, too many, only one, only two, sick before, sick after,
sick all night, all morning, sick of coughing up stale garlic
and garbanzo sluice, sick of wearing patches to protect
vulnerable eyeballs
from hungry childfingers.
Well…. No corndogs this year.
No self-serv sno-cone machines.
No Journey cover bands.
No drive-thru graduations.
We have learned to tell the difference
between a cough and a sneeze.
The deacons in their polished
black shoes
come to stand along the road north
out of the city,
holding out their tiny green
books for us to take,
free of charge.
well boiled. No bladder cancer, no militias,
no templar television specials.
In the last days, we knew only one language.
Swallowed light whole,
without chewing.
In the last days, we stocked 700 cans
of tomato soup, settled in
for a long wait.
All winter we read tales of uncanny humanoids, kind machines
who held our puffy faces in their cool
and perfect hands.
All winter, we contemplated yearly contracts and unlikely raises.
Duty to the presbytery, the honor of service.
We squeezed flame from slag and shale.
Bitter mothers who were mothers too soon,
too late, too many, only one, only two, sick before, sick after,
sick all night, all morning, sick of coughing up stale garlic
and garbanzo sluice, sick of wearing patches to protect
vulnerable eyeballs
from hungry childfingers.
Well…. No corndogs this year.
No self-serv sno-cone machines.
No Journey cover bands.
No drive-thru graduations.
We have learned to tell the difference
between a cough and a sneeze.
The deacons in their polished
black shoes
come to stand along the road north
out of the city,
holding out their tiny green
books for us to take,
free of charge.
James Miller (he/him) is a native of the Texas Gulf Coast. He is published in Best Small Fictions 2021 (Sonder Press) and in the Marvelous Verses anthology (Daily Drunk Press). Recent pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in Kissing Dynamite, On the Seawall, Phoebe, Yemassee, Elsewhere, The Madison Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Neologism, Press Pause, Coal Hill Review, The Shore and Indianapolis Review. Follow him on Twitter @AndrewM1621.