All summer I looked forward
to that rose-gold horizon drawn ahead in the haze,
some place on the other side of this sea.
I waited on the sand in the white sun,
glided through the jade waves
attempting to bathe in each moment.
It’s always slipping by me, slipping through me,
love, heat, a rush of days
of warm wind and water,
an ethereal hand
of light on my shoulder.
My chest is freckled from years of sun,
and my breasts sag
so you must cup them in your hands
to kiss them.
I am no longer the Christmas fruit,
yet the irony of the coconut
is not lost on me—
such succulence in a coarse-haired shell.
White sky, white woods,
and a blue jay--
a single streak of indigo ink
across blank paper.
Cheri L. Miller is a poet, fiction writer, creative nonfiction writer, and writing tutor from Baltimore, Maryland. Her poems have appeared in journals across the country, including Rock & Sling: A Journal of Witness, Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters, Penn-Union, Welter, Snakeskin, and others.