My father left a light on for me. I never went home.
There is a story I tell myself:
A shadow on the bedframe.
A heartbeat on the other side of those mountains.
It doesn’t listen.
I went one way and then another until I wound up here.
My father’s dresser with the loose change,
the pack of cigarettes, the revolver.
I learned a thing or two about logic that day:
It is a lie written into a cloud.
It is a lost shoe in the gravel beside the railroad tracks.
It is a drained swimming pool.
It is a bowed tree.
It is graffiti scribbled onto a tombstone.
It is a broken necklace.
It is the white blooms on a hacked limb of kudzu.
I am not my choices.
I am not my viscera.
My sleep is an empty blood-soaked fish hook.
My dreams are a snake on the surface of a black pond.
My past. It longs for me.
Grant Gerald Miller was born in Memphis, Tennessee. He currently lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama with the writer A.M. O’Malley and their son Max.