The Church of the Rowing Machine
In the end,
I arrive backward—
not the way I learned it
in the book,
but pulled by the body’s
wordless logic,
lever and bone.
I can see where I began,
the shore of a dream lake
where I put in every morning.
My crewmates sweat
and huff and secretly fear
I won’t keep up, but they
are illusion
and distance is illusion,
the water, the carpet
rolling to meet my strokes.
Books kneel on shelves,
chairs have parted with their ghosts.
The door is open
to the rest of the house,
the otherworld of day.
Behind me—who knows
what’s coming? Who can say
I haven’t moved an inch?
I tell you, I saw the reeds
slide by. I heard
the ducks on wings
nearly graze my shoulder
as they rowed
the invisible air.
© 2012 Amy Miller
Originally appeared in Alehouse
Sunnyvale
He came home to two martinis
and Art Buchwald out loud
in his black bucket chair,
steam creeping out the kitchen door.
By dinner he’d rolled his sleeves,
Indian-brown arms
like snakes under skin,
and we knew to pass the plates
without a sound.
If he was happy, he’d tell us
about the railroad—
emptied the toilets
right onto the tracks—
or the slaughterhouse
or the aircraft carrier nose-up
and falling fast.
Fish sticks hung in mid-air
and crashed the conning towers
of our tater tots. Milk bled out
the mouths of glasses.
Later, he’d change
and walk to the garage,
wrestle metal for hours
and shoot the bright rivets
through round, clean holes.
© 2012 Amy Miller
Originally appeared in Alehouse
nice work