Chaperoning Middle Schoolers as They Try to Figure Out How to Dance to Billie Eilish

Dancing in crepitatious beats, aggressive swarms

crack their wings. Strange, snapping speech,

stretched and rigid. The smoke machine

whispers in hazy rivulets. On the other side

of this misty river, a furtive cluster of

gangly trees swaying. Hands over their mouths,

casting glances across the gauzy divide.

A thunderclap or bass drop could break these lines,

send them scurrying together. But this is a time for me

to be quiet, like a cloud of dew in the heat of harvest.

They blossom, flower, and fall like tears

on the bathroom floor. I suppose that’s

the cycle of growth, how fruit ripens.

Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, and Club Plum Journal.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *