Joseph A. Miller, Flood
i wish you were less idea more dirt smell
ash good
the dahlia bulbs are paper-wrapped in a trunk until planting
season & i want to look out & see you tending the earth
at the fence the year you died i spent that whole summer
in the garden you stood in my story a noble fir until the end
my small self making you myth until there was barely space
for your real frail body how often did you sneeze or yawn
caught by unfiltered sun? on the last day the house was warm
& full of all of us i know you didn't want to go but you did
you told me thank you but not goodbye i brought home
irises—the honey-flecked cobalt of your favorite flannel
—for bill
ash good
the dahlia bulbs are paper-wrapped in a trunk until planting
season & i want to look out & see you tending the earth
at the fence the year you died i spent that whole summer
in the garden you stood in my story a noble fir until the end
my small self making you myth until there was barely space
for your real frail body how often did you sneeze or yawn
caught by unfiltered sun? on the last day the house was warm
& full of all of us i know you didn't want to go but you did
you told me thank you but not goodbye i brought home
irises—the honey-flecked cobalt of your favorite flannel
—for bill