Transfer of Power

When the final accident bursts
the balloons of my body,
revealing their water,
my only hope is that a few drops
find Lake Michigan.

I don't want to evaporate from an interdunal pond or
wallow in a Swedish well where an eel wraps itself
around the darkness waiting for a mate.
I'll have my ten years in the lake and then
reincarnate as the blood of a hawthorn.

No true statement can be made except,
"I do not know how to be alone."

Remember that evening in Toronto when
the siren of abandonment
split the night? My blood does.
I was the only one who heard her
because she used your lips.

Sex is somehow still more shocking than violence
in America, but I would rather listen to a waterfall
than hear once more your sacred outrage,
your echoes.

I'm thinking of ice and veins and
the slow work of water beneath the surface.
We're only young once: why create this bruise
of questions on our bodies?
We might have had poppies.

Here I am,
waiting to join the water cycle.

KyleEMiller Author Photo

Kyle E Miller

Kyle is a self-taught writer from Michigan. He can usually be found in dunes and forests turning over logs looking for life. Past incarnations include zookeeper, video game critic, retail manager, stablehand, and writing tutor. His work has appeared in Clarkesworld, Three-Lobed Burning Eye, and Young Magazine. You can find more at www.kyle-e-miller.com. IG: @temple_of_the_word