by Hanna Miller


Sheets warm and ragged.

Floated in a film,

hung on by a thread.

Lying in bed as sweat

beaded its necklace round


my face. Had a dream

I was pregnant

not long enough ago. Sleeping,


I could hear grass blades

sawing each other in half,

could smell their green

blood falling out,

could feel them too close,


touching too much.

Hope like sap,

sweet and slow, couldn’t


seep through the screen.

Thought I heard it tap the

window as I slept, but

I was wrong. Maybe it was

a kick from toes taking


a swim deep in my belly.

Dream about what

we don’t know we love,


they say, what we desire.

Sheets clung to my skin,

vine fingers, shoveling hands.

Could feel legs dangling as

green sprouted above my tomb.


Nine months ripe, seed

planted and rooted.

Woke up, rattled.




Hanna Miller is a senior in high school at the Mississippi School of the Arts, where she studies literary arts. She will attend Sewanee: The University of the South next year and pursue a degree in English (and/or possibly anthropology). Eventually, she will get her MFA in poetry writing. This is her fifth publication.

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