If this fireplace owned another
name for specialized warmth.
Lasso stone. Night eyes.
Iridescence a turret
we fountain for. We know it
as treading water.
On other bone we sand distance voices
some local degree apart.
Lobby rifling its absences:
a machine conveying rows of bite
in the shark's mouth: it is possible.
You know the jungle until worn.
The roar where thumb rests
an impression already abstracts
a leaving threshold.
©
is an MFA graduate from California College of the Arts. Recent poems have appeared in Fine Line Magazine, H_NGM_N, and in a chapbook, You Are Not a Bird, from Dancing Girl Press. She lives in the town where she grew up.
Jern-Miller’s poem “Long After the News” also appears in this issue.
