Plumeless

Plumeless

Matthew Miller

Photography by Toby Mitchell

The Widow at Nain, Luke 7

The road folds in the mountain's
    caramel and olive sides.
White wagtails stir up the dust
    with their gathering cries.

Who could hold silent
    when a child has died?
Pain is so graphic, invasive, a gagging
    sickness not passed with a sigh.

Perhaps I carry the wail inside. Lament
like cruel hands clenching my intestines.
Perhaps I carry a coffin
    of doubt down every street.

 Shadows recede on the south edge of trees.
   The soft, damp moss is where I wept.
         Unclenching and reaching.

But the sun takes hold of our shoulders.
    It pries open my silver thistle,
         sharp and without feathers.

---

Matthew Miller
Poet & Teacher

Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry - all hoping to create a home. His poetry has been published in several journals and can be found at https://mattleemiller.wixsite.com/poetry.