note to my mother
on crossing the bay bridge


I don’t believe in ghosts. So when you get there, just tell them it’s no good to me calling out across the water. The satin sea is throwing off the sun. O hundred brave sails. Perhaps you’re passing into the pantheon already in your small, white tennies and a Band-Aid on your fingernail. I’m getting home. I would have called. I would have called you right away.




Amy Miller

rough house

prose poetry for the people