Matthew Miller
My Son Fears This World as He Hits Double Digits
Golden Shovel of Franz Wright
Relax, I tell him, a pencil is graphite, it’s
not lead. Forget the threats of last September.
Breathe, son. Be present. June 13th.
Yesterday, his birthday passed again
with just a song in the minivan and
a flat drive into the
hogback sun.
And this morning, lightning on the Front Range is
splintering, a fearful shining.
Bare cattle pant on the
foothills. Nothing leafy
to distract the mind, largely
thorny and vacant,
an abandoned rectory.
Neglect is
the devil’s invitation. Just
as rattlesnakes will find a
hole to enter this empty place,
rest on broken blocks of concrete for
warmth and shade. It strikes me
how suddenly he’s begun to
believe in ghosts. Recluses hang
invisible webs. I don’t want to die before my
birthday. The forked tongue in his head.
A migration of tarantulas, it’s
more nightmares on the
march. I don't want this to last,
this slithering day.
He scribbles his fears on the blue lines of
a flipbook and listens. Somebody’s
turning the pages of his favorite childhood
adventure. Tomorrow, he and
I will lift every
rock and branch along the trail. All day
we’ll hike up new mountains. I’ll
reach into alpine lakes, try
to find macroinvertebrates to
prove the water is safe. I’ll do
anything to find one
mayfly nymph, an alien thing,
hexapodal and stringy, because I
know it means healthy water, like
a well dug in
deep in his memory.
Strange creatures are just evidence of
creative being.
Don’t be afraid to die happy.
Relax, I tell him, a pencil is graphite, it’s
not lead. Forget the threats of last September.
Breathe, son. Be present. June 13th.
Yesterday, his birthday passed again
with just a song in the minivan and
a flat drive into the
hogback sun.
And this morning, lightning on the Front Range is
splintering, a fearful shining.
Bare cattle pant on the
foothills. Nothing leafy
to distract the mind, largely
thorny and vacant,
an abandoned rectory.
Neglect is
the devil’s invitation. Just
as rattlesnakes will find a
hole to enter this empty place,
rest on broken blocks of concrete for
warmth and shade. It strikes me
how suddenly he’s begun to
believe in ghosts. Recluses hang
invisible webs. I don’t want to die before my
birthday. The forked tongue in his head.
A migration of tarantulas, it’s
more nightmares on the
march. I don't want this to last,
this slithering day.
He scribbles his fears on the blue lines of
a flipbook and listens. Somebody’s
turning the pages of his favorite childhood
adventure. Tomorrow, he and
I will lift every
rock and branch along the trail. All day
we’ll hike up new mountains. I’ll
reach into alpine lakes, try
to find macroinvertebrates to
prove the water is safe. I’ll do
anything to find one
mayfly nymph, an alien thing,
hexapodal and stringy, because I
know it means healthy water, like
a well dug in
deep in his memory.
Strange creatures are just evidence of
creative being.
Don’t be afraid to die happy.
Biography
Matthew Miller (he/him) 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.
Website: mattleemiller.wixsite.com/poetry
Twitter: @mattleemiller32
Website: mattleemiller.wixsite.com/poetry
Twitter: @mattleemiller32
