So she hears wind rubbing on the leaven roof Of the house that has no companion Anywhere across the empires of the grass. She wakes. She has been lying on the earth But now she rolls, hearing in the pause, Her heart quicken, then slow. No one is there. Nearby the scorched grass holds up nothing. The laundry-line aches with its black shirt, And the earth curves without comparison. Only the wind like a friend of her husband Comes—her husband is not home. It loosens And lifts the strands she’s tied back in her hair. Black bangs fly as she twists around to rise. Her hands paw the sod. She does not rise.
-- Andrew Miller was born in Fresno, California. His poetry has appeared in such literary magazines as Laurel Review, Spoon River Review, and Iron Horse Literary Review. In addition, Mr. Miller is the author of Poetry, Photograph, Ekphrasis: Lyrical Representations of Photography from the 19th Century to the Present and the co-editor of The Gazer Within, the Selected Prose of Larry Levis. He lives in Copenhagen, Denmark, with his family.