James Miller
Glass Eye
We loaded up end-tables,
your soft chair, six pairs of shoes.
Rooms newly painted, hammer-holes puttied,
a stale roll of toilet paper waiting on the spindle.
As we keyed in the service entrance, a tiny spider
froze on the handle, then slipped in with us.
No one wanted to kill her, with a flat hand or flat heel.
We turned away to unlock your door. For hours my sister
unpacked aphorisms, laid them on the floor, while I wiped
dust and mold from your TV stand. We filled your cupboard
with three each of mug, plate, bowl. Then spoon,
knife, fork. We pulled up the blinds, knowing that you
would force them down again. We hung the photo
of our dead father on the wall, so that you could fall asleep
studying his one glass eye—bauble-blown,
cooled to kindness.
your soft chair, six pairs of shoes.
Rooms newly painted, hammer-holes puttied,
a stale roll of toilet paper waiting on the spindle.
As we keyed in the service entrance, a tiny spider
froze on the handle, then slipped in with us.
No one wanted to kill her, with a flat hand or flat heel.
We turned away to unlock your door. For hours my sister
unpacked aphorisms, laid them on the floor, while I wiped
dust and mold from your TV stand. We filled your cupboard
with three each of mug, plate, bowl. Then spoon,
knife, fork. We pulled up the blinds, knowing that you
would force them down again. We hung the photo
of our dead father on the wall, so that you could fall asleep
studying his one glass eye—bauble-blown,
cooled to kindness.
Biography
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James Miller (he/him) is a native of the Texas Gulf Coast. He is published in Best Small Fictions 2021 (Sonder Press) and in the Marvelous Verses anthology (Daily Drunk Press). Recent pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in Phoebe, Yemassee, Elsewhere, West Trade Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Neologism, Press Pause, Coal Hill Review, The Shore, and Indianapolis Review. Follow on Twitter @AndrewM1621.
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