Cody, Wyoming

by Christopher Miller

Drove straight through from Minneapolis:

through the National Grasslands, through the Black Hills where we stopped to brush our teeth at

a rest stop on I-80 where the sun rose over a sign under a sheet of smudgy glass described the

footprints of dinosaurs located nearby while bison nibbled scrub not a hundred yards away.

Stopped at Mt. Rushmore (smaller than in the movies, exactly as crowded),

ate tacos and tater tots for lunch, cold coffee from styrofoam cups, and

warm water from plastic bottles. Katy counted out our cash in a narrow fan with her fingers,

shook her head no at the Crazy Horse monument when the man asked for 14 dollars.

In the front seat while she studied the map the mountains appeared in a glare

against the windshield tall and white and distant I said stupidly "Katy. Katy look. Look Katy."

The map open in her lap she stared until the road dipped then went back to her map.

The run-away truck ramps dotted the sides of the hills like brown birthmarks.

Found a KOA behind a screen of tall pines just off the highway as the sun set,

went into town and ate a t-bone steak and thin breaded fried onions and drank beer

from an iced mug so cold it hurt the palm of my hand, dripped slivers of ice onto the

red-and-white-checked tablecloth over the table, the picnic table bolted to a concrete floor.

After the meal slipped towards sleep as if tied to it like an anchor. Back at the site

stumbled towards the new blue tent, kicked off the dusty boots, lay on the bags (zippered together) and

felt the length of my backbone press the dry ground. Remarked in my mind there was no smell of grass,

no scent of water anywhere, just the evening quickly cooling. Katy went out for something.

Later, suddenly awake in the unfamiliar dark, reached out felt the other half of

the bag empty and cold. Listening, heard the semis rumble out of the pass, some other traveler's

satellite-dish attuned television turned too loud, the wind rip not whistle through the tall pines. A

pair of headlights cast the silhouette of my head on the roof of the tent.

Sat up stiffly, sweaty, cool, afraid. Checked my watch and saw it was late. Through the fabric of the tent

saw the shapes of a dog, a rock, and a tree. Also other tents, motor coaches, and the hut of the bathrooms.

Breath was sticky and dry, looked for my boots to look for Katy and could not remember where I had kicked them off.

Steps and a flashlight floated towards the flap.

Then the zipper softly crackled and there she was,
squatting with her arms full in the door while the
smell of clean hot laundry filled the dry tent like
the ocean.

Copyright © Christopher Miller 2003

Mandala

by Christopher Miller

Zimmerman
you wrote such beautiful poems, poems
about your father and his chunky yogurt
about the splinters of your broken guitar
about meditation at dawn in the Himalayas
about drinking Vodka by the liter and
puking it up in a women's room stall in a
Manhattan hotel with a woman much older than you holding your
rock-star hair in a knot loose in her fist at the base of your neck
with her breasts bare and her stockings peeled down
her pale motherly thighs.

(I remember that one especially.)

This was in college and when you
read these things out loud in class it made us
nervous, confused, and disbelieving.
Under the institutional ceiling tiles your words
rattled around like thrown stones.
The professor too: he frowned at your
experiences as much as your alliterations,
at your balls more than your meter.
Frustrated with us you would blush and
refuse to defend yourself
past a certain point, as if
whether you were wrong a lot, a little, or not at all
(you were not, though who knew?)
was beside the point.

You left
soon after graduation, your black eyes
beaming on a cloudy evening by the Atlantic Ocean, your
black navy bag packed and your guitar case taped up
on the sidewalk.
You took a bus from
Asbury Park New Jersey to Lexington Kentucky.

You were
sure to see things there
only you could.

Copyright © Christopher Miller 2003