Carl Miller poems page 23

July - December 1976

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The Cat and the Shower Curtain

My cat Sam meows underfoot in the doorway
and follows me outside, until I startle him
by lifting a plastic shower curtain off the ground.
His sudden dash the other way makes me aware
of what a ridiculous bulky bundle it makes;
he does not understand what I am doing.

I think of how he eats and demands attention,
chases lizards and wrestles with the vacuum hose,
much more concrete activities than carrying
a shower curtain in from drying in the sun,
and I wonder at the abstract, complex things I do,
at how much of my behavior must surprise him.

Briceland Pond

I’m no good at swimming,
but there’s a raft in the Briceland pond
that’s usually blown against the shore,
two logs with a deck of old boards.
I pole it to the middle of the pond.

I’m nude, which is usually okay here.
People have been coming and going,
but right now I’m alone with her.

She was swimming with her boyfriend
just a few minutes ago, got dressed,
and now she’s back, sitting on the grass,
talking to me. We haven’t talked much
since those few nights last December.

She takes off her blouse and smiles at me.
I slip off one end of the raft,
hiding my reaction in the water.
I didn’t see her taking off her pants.

A few moments later, I feel the warmth
of her breasts and belly pressed against
my back in the cool water.
I turn to face her watery kiss.

We couple in the water,
hanging onto the raft’s projecting logs,
brief but sensual, finishing just before
someone else arrives to take a swim.

China Creek Outlaws

At a wedding party up China Creek,
the bride’s ex-boyfriend Tom played guitar
and sang some Grateful Dead songs
like he was the outlaw in the lyrics.

I met some other rough-looking men.
One of them, Michael, who wore thick glasses,
peppered every sentence with the “F” word.
He was with a worn-out looking woman
named Bonnie, and several young children.

None of the men related to these children
except to say shut up or go away.
One of the little boys looked bewildered
when I politely answered his question,
as if surprised any man would do this.

I’m Trying to Concentrate

I’m trying to concentrate.
Instead, I find
I’m diffusing rapidly.

Vincent Van Gogh and his Brother’s Family

When Theo brought Vincent into the room
where his infant son lay in the cradle,
Johanna saw tears swell in both men’s eyes,
grief for the family the artist had wanted
but long since given up hope of having.

She had no idea what to expect
from this man just released from asylum,
the man who wrote her husband almost daily,
whose pictures not only covered their walls
but filled every possible storage space.

The Vincent she saw seemed lively and centered.
She wrote about finding him looking at
his works on the walls early next morning,
caught an image of him spreading all his
unframed canvases on the floor to study.

Between the Lines

I was feeling something like that grief
of Vincent Van Gogh released from the asylum
looking at his brother’s wife and baby,
when I was in the hospital, watching
Yon and Ama with their new baby, Jessie.

My friends were pairing off, but didn’t see
why I should need to do the same thing.
That counseling group had me all stirred up
about desiring a wife and children.

I was intensely wrestling with words,
trying to make each poem say what it could
in the most elegant possible way.
That poem I wrote about Vincent fit my feelings
about my art, my friends, my jealousy.