12 Philip Miller [As of this month, Phil Miller joins the magazine as Contributing Editor. He lives in Kansas City. Eds.] ~ . ~ Neighbors Winter we know them only as shadows behind drawn window curtains, as gunmetal flashes of cars fleeting, in their come and go, as taillights spilling vermilion on the snow. Spring we greet each other like swallowtails broken from chrysalides, flying our best colors, in rayons striped lime, canary, tangerine. And in unison, all summer, we mow, weed, trim, or we patio and pool, good neighbors trying to keep cool, winking at each other for nothing, watching as our bright leaves slowly grow carmine, russet, boot brown, gathering them up as they fall, setting them aflame, searching for each other through the haze, waving. ~ . Strange Kisses You can't forget the feeling when you pick up something strange: a piece of luggage from the airport carousel, how thick the handle, how light the weight, it knocks you off balance and you drop it quick. Or by accident you start toward a car, you think is yours ­ how fast you flinch away, your hand almost to the door, on noticing an odd tint of windshield shining in the sun. Gazing down at items you would never buy ­ a jar of Ovaltine, a few fresh apricots ­ you back off from the grocery cart, but wonder how such things would taste. These little brushes somehow make you think of when you're kissing someone else's wife, for reasons purely ceremonial, pecking, say at midnight on some New Year's Eve: how cool her cheek, how tightly pursed her lips, you feel the small strain of a firm reserve that defers to prior ownership or fear of giving something easily away. You walk off, feeling like a thief, wondering, however light, if this was a fatal brush but savoring the strange taste on your lips. ~ . Dusting Dust enough and the textures of a place grow as familiar to your touch as the ends of your elbows, as the cleft of your chin. Regular dusting and you dream of it ­ how dust gathers in gray corners, how it sticks to windowpanes, your hands traveling the curves of wing chairs, your fingers finding nooks, the minute crevices of grooved woodwork. Regular dusting and one day you lean against a broom and watch dust sparkling in a shaft of sun, see it float and settle ­ animate, little dancing galaxies. Or you notice in the warp and wave of some old mirror, your own shape shifting, your eyebrows thinning, that you, too, are sifting slowly ­ before you pick up your scrap of old undershirt and begin dusting once again, uncovering the same bright surfaces, as if something may emerge in the grains of polished wood, or some design may lie underneath the simple skin of things. ~ . Settling It's the way leaves seem overnight to turn from ochre to burnt umber, to fall in little heaps outside our windows: the way you shut your book, and sit up to take a look, curling a little grin which says, "That's finished." The way I can't find a word to hurl toward windows that turn backward, inward, reflecting outside inside, bringing dark. The way we snap on lights and start fresh books, crackling their spines, putting on brave smiles of "We shall see." The way in windows we can see ourselves stare at ourselves in oblong panes of shadows. The way we feel the chill of something creep inside, hear crystal sing, our fine stems toast themselves: the way we keep our eyes glued to the pages as the whole house quivers, the way we learn to settle, the way we learn to read clear to the end. ~ . On His Own He's toasting himself tonight, winking at mirrors, lost in secret conversations, donning masks of past friends and foes, reenacting some ancient quarrel or standoff, getting even, having it all out again, between short trips to the tiny kitchen for another splash of vodka on the rocks, muttering, keeping the thread of talk back to the old couch where he holds court, lecturing to the armchair facing him. What a relief, to have found someone who listens to his side of things, who understands, agrees. On his way back, this time, a fresh drink tinkling in his hand, he gets off track, forgets, a second, where he is, where his friend has gone, sits puzzled for half an hour, making sure he's really by himself just staring at an empty chair. ~ . The Flesh Made Word Ah, whisper of the breath as uphill today I puff a ghost or two into early frost, and later, exhausted into my chair with its own arms and legs, the creaks and cracks of my bones, the thud thud of my blood and then a blue, skipped beat, dropped for a moment as the flesh poises before a world that almost overcomes the synapses' silent snap, and when I rise again the popping sound my knees and elbows utter, the skin's slap or squeak or rasp, all day this difficult discourse, and oh, of course, hiccup, belch, and fart; yawn, sneeze, and snore, now a humming in the brain or ringing in the ears, a nerve cell or two giving up the ghost: ah, murmur in the heart, that flutter and flap -- the flesh publishing, trying hard to break into words. "Neighbors," " Strange Kisses," and "Dusting" apppear in Cats In The House, Woodley Memorial Press, Washburn University, Topeka Kansas l997 (Second Edition) Copyright 1987 by Philip Miller. "The Flesh Made Word" appears in Rattapallax No. 6. ~ . ~