By Susan Miller

It all started with
the lines. One pale,
one rock solid,
staring from a 
tiny pool of pink.

Clanking glasses of 
cheap Korbel, soggy
pita, day-old tahini.
Their after-midnight, 
quick-fridge feast.

Painting Pooh by
peek-a-boo bunnies
on lemon walls.
Plush quilts that 
lined pastel dreams.

It all ended with 
the blood. Splattered
terrycloth, choked womb.
Fists pounding the 
cold linoleum floor.

They all say there
will be others. One
pale, one rock solid.

She says she would 
have called her Iris.

Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

By Susan Miller

These were the things he missed,
the ones that were suppose
to stay silent, shoved down deep.
What with all the carnage spilling
all over his morning paper for
weeks, then months, a year.
The little things. The ones that
filled empty spaces, connected
his dots, fueled his day.

The gurgle of his grandson,
a sniff of her lavender shampoo.
Beer with his poker buddies,
sticky doughnuts after Mass.
The kind library lady, the 
sidewalk smiles of strangers.
Her crimson lips, the way
she asked him to dance.

Her touch. Any touch.

Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.

By Susan Miller

 Jules was sinking
and no one really got that.
They’d say hey, how goes it,
what’s up, catch you soon.
She took the 38B in the a.m.;
you could set your watch on that.
You’d see her at the bus stop
in rainbow-colored rain boots,
pink slicker, flowered skirt.
Ear buds dangling between
stringy locks, smudged eyeliner
hiding slits that stared
at ants on the ground.

 You didn’t see scab-pocked
arms where a razor dug in deep
the night before. Or fingernails
that gripped the green lunch bucket,
nibbled into broken skin.
You didn’t hear the rattle
in her head on the dark days
or pay attention when she
crossed the street seven times.

Jules was just always there
standing near the weeds
waiting, waiting for the 38B.
She was always going somewhere,
the girl who was going nowhere.

Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA TODAY newspaper who enjoys creative writing as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, including Whimsical Poet, The Dillydoun Review, Gemini Magazine, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Under the Bridges of America, Sandy Paws and the Arlington Anthology. She had a short story published in Beach Life.