The Miller’s Daughter
Open the envelope.
Summer’s hollow beat splits in halves heavier than the first—
plays on bluegrass sprung after you awaken.
Today it is July and something unseen
makes slow progress in a parking lot
and my heart goes with eastbound cars
when you leave.
I want to love you with your mind turned off,
in your skin you say is white—I say Cherokee:
because I know your toes, I know your stillness
like the trees, your laughter leveling forests
like the kissing of the wind against my knees.
Lay down your winter coat and pick up your skin,
the faucet is running, your children will not hear you coming.
I’ve done with small feasts and narrow steps,
Tonight is the night you leave your husbands without regret.
MG May 1, 2024