Erin L. Miller received her BA in English with a minor in writing at Kent State University and is currently working on an MFA in Poetry at Bowling Green State University. Her poetry and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Mid-American Review, Prick of the Spindle, and Used Furniture, among other publications. She was awarded a Devine Fellowship, received an honorable mention in the Wick Poetry Center Undergraduate Competition, and was a finalist for the Rita Dove Poetry Award. She currently lives in Ohio.
We found ourselves in the kitchen again.
Slant-hipped, elbow bent,
your hands resting on the counter.
Even though you didn’t say it, I knew
you were thinking of Japan.
The water between us already:
Like the time you took me by the throat
and pushed. And the moment the light
disappeared from your body. And when I realized
the cause of my want was something
more shallow than I’ll ever admit.
The next morning I found a lump in my breast,
turned over, then dreamt of a lily that told me
the day I would die, and the lily became a jar
of impossible things and fell, blushing.
The next time I woke—you stirred, not quite gone.