May 2022

by  Alison Miller



His open closet is an avalanche

of cloudy blues and winter plaids,

festival tee shirts and tough-to-tie

Tibetan pants toppling each other

like snow. I watch from over

his shoulder as he sets like the sun

between my knees. I am aching

moss slowly churned into moist

earth. I am always naked here.

My shoes are by the front door

and the yard is full of bees. From

his fingers, I take my taste of God.

There are flowers in the bathwater.

 There are mushrooms in the tea.