By Amy Miller
I love the way Téa Leoni chugs
that martini—shaky, the news
she knows is bad and now believes.
You can see it in her hand,
in that glass—the biggest wave
thundering this way. Meanwhile,
pilots and nukes still wear the pants.
We blow shit up, but it still comes.
Hold me, she says as the end arcs over
and she remembers the beach
she always thought would be there, soft sand
made from shattered mountains.
Amy Miller’s poetry has appeared in Nimrod, Permafrost, Rattle, Willow Springs, and ZYZZYVA. Her chapbooks include I Am on a River and Cannot Answer (BOAAT Press) and Rough House (White Knuckle Press), and she won the Cultural Center of Cape Cod National Poetry Competition, judged by Tony Hoagland, and has been a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize and 49th Parallel Award. She lives in Oregon and blogs at writers-island.blogspot.com.