Stacy Marie Miller

Hope is an intrathecal reservoir

Hope is hardly the things in the room:

The halo stench of dark urine 
above the plastic toilet.

The indelicate pa-thump of oxygen
thrusting through its tether.

Your new sudoku book whose empty pages
I pray not to inherit.

The leaning tower of adult diapers
next to the glass of water you won’t drink.

The iridescent blue crab painted above the dresser, seeming to grab
the Gerber daisies sent from old friends in California.
 
Maybe hope is the batik dress you bought in January,
the oil change scribbled in the week-at-a-glance
for tomorrow,
the Atlantic renewal card ready for the mailbox.

Maybe hope is the knit purple hat I found at Goodwill
which snags now on the fairy-ring of staples 
on your bald spot
as I fumble to position it like a pert beret.
Even your wince is polite, forgiving. 

Hope is your bluebird eyes
when “fuck this shit fuck this shit fuck this shit” 
rasps like rusted bumper cars in your dry mouth.

Or maybe hope is the boy at the bird feeder
squatting in footie pajamas
his still soft fingers
clasping a stink bug like a topaz
 
a tongue moving into undiscovered words
just outside your window.

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Stacy Marie Miller (she/her) lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. She has a B.A in English and Environmental Studies from Saint Mary’s College of Maryland, where she was Editor in Chief of AVATAR Literary Magazine. Her work has been published in wildscape. literary journal. She can be periodically sighted on Instagram @sloppy.minutiae.