James Miller

­  ­

  ­­

No One Lives Here

­­  

  ­­

Wind slaps our wheels, whips early white blooms 

on bradford pears along the highway. Dry brush, 

              weak roots. 

You say, no one lives here—not true, 

we know. Hired hearts once pulled out zinc, dragged 

              lead pits, 

drank tainted runoff. Their grandchildren 

now staff the World’s Largest Giftshop. We stop 

              for sodas, 

then work down to Joplin, over the border 

into Oklahoma. I read aloud the history of Olympe 

              de Gouge, 

whose Declaration stood early for the franchise. 

But the car shudders, creaks. Frost and a flick of blizzard 

              in Kansas, 

so the feeds say. We see only a line of great trucks, 

surging to Tulsa. And four rippling cones of new 

              wildfire. 

As we pass, they consume a fence-line in five breaths. 

Each flame stands wide as two warriors. Welcomes 

              the silence in.

  ­­

  ­­

­­  ­