Brigid’s Air Brigid carries forgiveness in a paper sack sits on the bench near the town center. The fountain spits from its fish mouth the mist drifts to her, as always, wind finds her— campfires, walks, at play. If she were a kite it might make sense, a gust rattles her sticks, tangles a tail, since she was a kid she lived in fear, a sad-sack girl unable to find ease. Her play a mad-mix black comedy, the center of sorrow dusted with sequin bits to wind her up. She longed to keep her mouth a line to hide doubt. Mother’s mouth forced her to the bag of breath, the sense of shame like sand in the eyes, grit, a wind driven vane squeals and spins, her sack is a calm, safe from the zephyr’s center. She breathes this balance, fair play her defense from a sudden gust, her play to press chest to knees, a closed-mouth sip of air, she exhales forgiveness to center herself, to be the storm, common sense says she is not at fault, no sack cloth and ashes for Brigid, re-wind each reel Mother spun, a venom-wind soundtrack with mean features to play as home movies. Mother’s favorite sack of snakes, the twisted lies spark mouth to a flame, her mother-speak nonsense of a woman longing to be the center of attention, while Brigid is the center her father keeps, his way to wind away from the mother, his singular sense of commitment, as if this one act play ends when Brigid leaves home, his mouth steady as love, absolution in her sack. A child caught in the center plays the wind like a second sense, her mouth whispers thin as she gives her mom the sack.
Kevin Miller lives in Tacoma, Washington. Wandering Aengus Press published his most recent collection Vanish in 2019. Miller taught in the public schools of Washington State for thirty-nine years.
Grand Little Things 