The Bird Who Saw Everything: a Curtal Sonnet From her thicket home, the brown thrasher spied a king and queen’s budding love in the green house tucked in the corner lot. Her offspring grew and stretched wings along with the bright-eyed children of the happy home- all hearts: serene. And then, quietly, a small wound, a bee sting of an injury that festered and cracked the shield of love over them all, guillotined hearts in shocked hands, refusing to contravene love. The brown thrasher knew you’d never come back, Wreaked King.
Confession Poem -Golden Shovel- “Notes on the Art of Poetry” by Dylan Thomas *In the world between the covers of books* This is just to say that in the dead of night, when the house was in a deep slumber, the cyber world whispered my name between blinks, so I slipped out from under the weight of heavy covers, tiptoed lightly down the hallway of our house, and bought more books.
The moth angles down- powdery gold cloth wings caught, entangled in air.
Kelly Miller is a writer of fiction and poetry whose work has appeared in Gemini Magazine and *82 Review. Her visual poetry can be viewed on Instagram at kellymiller_
Grand Little Things 