I’ve Tried Everything I Know
Grieving still empties me, shakes me
like dust from a kerchief. By your grave,
I’ve tried to see the sun-glints of asphalt
as sequins that fell from the dress
you’re dancing in. My child, I’ve tried
to prick stars in this lacquered abyss, but
it’s so thick that I cannot rip
the dark sphere. Kneeling at your stone, I’ve tried
to sweep away the brown leaves without weeping,
but I’m a spectacle of need. I’ve tried
to stand with chin to the wind, but
everything’s still spinning. I’ve tried
to be sure this heart-churning will birth
black diamonds in me. I tried
to believe they’re unbreakable, but I know
they’re also the most impure.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry—all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in River Mouth Review, Whale Road Review, Club Plum Journal and Ekstasis Magazine.