An Untitled Secret
Another evening.
The kids say the same prayers, for everything
to stay the same, to stay safe.
I am not changing.
Every night, I am apathetic.
Fruit trees have been picked clean.
Once, I had a drink
with an orange slice.
The lake smooth
on the day of my baptism.
Even tossing salt on the surface
won’t make the water sweet.
My whole life I’ve believed
my addiction isn’t as deep
as you might think. But I only
make oblique confessions,
admitting the waves, not
what’s under them.
Something is draining
the color, like a foggy mirror or
a stained stout glass.
Each glance is more gray.
I struggle to remember.
I’ve not always been this way.
We have spoken of love
as a synonym of patience,
the long suffering. I am committed
to enduring, but would delight
in suffering something new,
something shimmering and tenuous.
The kids say the same prayers, for everything
to stay the same, to stay safe.
I am not changing.
Every night, I am apathetic.
Fruit trees have been picked clean.
Once, I had a drink
with an orange slice.
The lake smooth
on the day of my baptism.
Even tossing salt on the surface
won’t make the water sweet.
My whole life I’ve believed
my addiction isn’t as deep
as you might think. But I only
make oblique confessions,
admitting the waves, not
what’s under them.
Something is draining
the color, like a foggy mirror or
a stained stout glass.
Each glance is more gray.
I struggle to remember.
I’ve not always been this way.
We have spoken of love
as a synonym of patience,
the long suffering. I am committed
to enduring, but would delight
in suffering something new,
something shimmering and tenuous.
Working Late on My Son’s Rube Goldberg Project
I’ve been thinking about ego depletion,
increasing complexity increases
the breakdown. Like his insistence it
begin with bow shot, eschewing a gentle
hand to topple the dominos.
How many times will he misjudge his power,
scattering tiles instead of providing forward
momentum? That’s not our only problem,
as the pulleyed weight stops on the bucket’s lip,
a Matchbox car stalls at the apex of its track,
the needle strikes the balloon too soon.
We’ve got to get this right
before we run out of tries, before its bedtime or
his cough worsens in this cold garage.
His procrastination has tensed our dis-
ease. Looping the hook of the balance weight
with his tiny string, I hope it will hold
under the pressure. We’ve built
such a complicated simple machine.
increasing complexity increases
the breakdown. Like his insistence it
begin with bow shot, eschewing a gentle
hand to topple the dominos.
How many times will he misjudge his power,
scattering tiles instead of providing forward
momentum? That’s not our only problem,
as the pulleyed weight stops on the bucket’s lip,
a Matchbox car stalls at the apex of its track,
the needle strikes the balloon too soon.
We’ve got to get this right
before we run out of tries, before its bedtime or
his cough worsens in this cold garage.
His procrastination has tensed our dis-
ease. Looping the hook of the balance weight
with his tiny string, I hope it will hold
under the pressure. We’ve built
such a complicated simple machine.
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Matthew MillerMatthew 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 Instagram: @matt.lee.miller |