Poem #4
Cole Miller
→BFA SC 2026
Images taken by the author.Imagine this, you’re in a room full of ballerinas, all taller and slimmer than you. Clothed in pink. Waiting for a string to be struck. Now imagine you’re in the crowd. Someone takes out their tissue. Someone raises their hand. Now imagine you’re the choir. Singing quietly and then loudly. Imagine you’re the conductor. Now imagine it’s just you. You’re all alone on the stage, being watched for a very long time. The people all gathered in a shadow, squinting and squished together on the bleachers. Watch closely. An all star player, yes, that is you. A show stopper and a dream come true.
Imagine I were to stop telling this story, I’ll take my cup off the table and lay back on the couch. I’ll hook a little smirk in the corner of my lip. You like it when I make up these stories. Coming up with new things to put your world into view. You’re still thinking, and I like that. But how many times must I tell you to keep still and let it take over. I’ll shoot the light out of my body. I’m adoring this way. I’m revealing the waters. I’ll turn the Sun into a blood dot. I’m learning to let the gravity pull.
I’ll tell you my story, sure. Yeah, here it goes. I’m in a race car, racing really fast. Down this street with no end in sight. The car is red, yes, that’s true. It used to be purple, but now it’s red. It’s collecting again. All coming into focus. I’ll tell you another story, okay. I’m walking along the edge of the Sun as it rises for a new day. I’m somewhere inside the story. Inside because how can I leave you in this state. The great adventure all along.
Either way, I need to take a shower. Are you coming? The waters are warm. The soap is clean. I bite your shoulder and make it bleed. I’m stationed here, in the corner of the room where my seat has been chosen. How can’t you love it here? In this place that smells like sweat. Listen here, boy. This ones a doozy! Hauling the bag across the alleyway. So much friction is being built here. Untensing it and crawling upwards.
Well, I’m looking at the clock again. These miniature framings of longing and penetrating. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it all now. The blessings I’ve written down. The offerings I’ve given away. The job as your second in command. It’s wonderful here! An old call from an old friend in the snowfall. It makes me blush just to think about these stories. Benjamin…benjamin! I can’t see that far so I’ll squint my eyes and make it work.
Long story made super short, I just wanted to come and see you again, and these days are very short. I’ll call out your name because it rings in the air. I’m trying my best, you know, and you’re trying your best to keep things friendly.
Brass knuckles spelling out all kinds of disaster. But the sky has cleared and your hair is fine. Taking off my clothes because they just don’t fit right. Burning my hair off and giving it to you to build a nest. High atop a tree still looking for something to look for.
Small scriptures written on the back of our hands telling us the time of day or what’s for dinner. The morning still finding. The trees still bending. Everything so quiet. It’s tall and so much is being held in our arms. Inside the barn, hay uneaten, lantern aglow, mittens shoved in pockets, feels almost like a fantasy.
I’ll catch the boats as they come into the bay. I’ll collect them as evidence that we lived here. We’ll smile because it’s funny, or because it’s awkward, or because we know we’re all that’s left. In this apocalypse. In this holiday season. In this tornado alley. In the shape of an ancient pyramid. Your nose becomes so red. Your eyes never staying still. It makes me feel a certain way when you’re not sure what to say. Or where to put your hands. Revving up this getaway car. Ringing the bell. Calling it ours. Oh, baby. Say it with a crooked look and you’ll be just fine. Your pants all wet from the snow. Heat coming from a hand held chest. What’s so soft in your field, baby? Our scarlet clip. That’s all it was really ever supposed to be. A connecting pull. An honest job.
I believe it all the same. We can sit in our chairs. We can smoke all day. We can tell jokes and make up stories that never happened. I got you this pen to write it all down. No more windows and no more food. I’ve held you here long enough to remember your patterns. That’s what makes this all fun, don’t you get that?
But where else when you’re in the burning cold. It’s our second chance. Our miracle unveiling. This is where I hold all my junk. The bag breaking at the bottom. Laying in the empty orchard. The sun setting a thousand miles away. In the names of romance. On the outside of brackets. In a holy steeple. In my spot marked off. Checked the list and here we are! Hold me on your back and walk on. All of the treasure uncovered. And all of the magic explained.
I’ll talk about what this does. And I’ll ask you to get comfortable. Here in the audience, watching you now. I’ll make up this story and feel its edges. The curtain is raised. The crowd is poised. It’s all come to this, how do you like it?
Cole Miller wants to see a Big Mountain.