by Quinn Miller
Beyond the reach of mourning roots
where the land is thirsty and quiet,
a mountain leaves its shadow
on the road of sharp turns.
Around the bend,
the scenery grows stark and more familiar,
as I brace myself
for the landmark up ahead.
If I don’t look away,
I’ll see the turnoff
to the distant light gone dark,
marking the house where she died.
a wilderness inside
and in the flash,
emotions run like frightened deer.
It’s forty miles to Merced.
I tried to find another route, but never could.
Quinn Miller has been writing poetry since his father handed him a worn copy of A Coney Island of the Mind in the 80s. He’s also performed in numerous bands you’ve never heard of on both coasts of the United States. He strives to craft poems that exploit the musicality of language, while packing the punch of a well-tuned kick drum to the solar plexus.