Ice Poem

In the dream, I know

how to keep our screen-

porch cool for after-supper digestion.

A box fan pumps boiled air,

so I dump two dozen ice cubes

on the asphalt every twenty

seven minutes.

Their rounded edges soften,

as snowed centers clear

to clarity, cruelty.

Relief nibbles round

our ankles.

We can feel

a half-rest in the night,

and pretend to be collectors

of song—all about mothers

buried well, children

born breathing.

Pie-slice of light

from the kitchen,

but our faces are hidden.

You have been talking

about moving, inland

to Baptist-country

of prehistoric shale, stilled

oceanic graptolites, pears rotting

in August crunch grass

alongside steady

highway drone.

I stand to fetch

a second beer. Ripple

of raw thigh stuck

to my plastic seat.

Hugging itself,

then letting go.

James Miller won the Connecticut Poet Award in 2020. His poems have appeared in Cold Mountain Review, The Maine Review, Lunch Ticket, 2River, Juked, Meat for Tea, Main Street Rag, Plainsongs, The Atlanta Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, Rogue Agent, Sweet Tree Review, Thin Air, The Inflectionist Review, Panoply, Typehouse and elsewhere.