Re-Radiance
Sometimes I already miss
the names of things rolling
muscular in the mouth: wisteria,
nandina, rhododendron,
time packed and loaded
in the smallest growing tip.
Tissue, nodule, dense.
A shadow coalesced:
radiograph, ductogram,
white veins full like a river
reversed, a hundred-year
event. Skin stilled.
Breath held. Now breathe.
I try to think of petals
and pistils, whorls that are
normal, negative, of no
concern. How flowers
even in night
bear up and bloom.
This poem was originally published in the Radar Poetry Journal.
Amy Miller’s writing has appeared in Barrow Street, Copper Nickel, Gulf Coast, Nimrod, Rattle, RHINO, Terrain, Tupelo Quarterly, Willow Springs, ZYZZYVA, Fine Gardening, Asimov’s Science Fiction, and many editions of the Poet’s Market. She is the editor-in-chief of the small boutique publisher Cyclone Press.
Ms. Amy Miller can be reached at: