when she tells me
she speaks to the dead


I hope the little light she sees hasn’t got another side, just narrows into a perfectly plausible dance in the blood vessels of the eye. I hope she drowns in a tunnel of snow, the earth sorting down the pieces of her. I hope the earth finds everything there. I hope the lines and wounds dissolve, turn bloody inside out, and rest a long, long way from each other under grasses that shut their yaps and know their season.




Amy Miller

rough house

prose poetry for the people