Falling
At a certain age, the doctor asks me—
how many times have you fallen
in the last year?
Down the steps, on the bathroom floor,
a fall from grace—my mind stumbles
to think of the implications.
I fell when I took my first step,
off my bike, cut my leg so badly the scar
is still there. I fell out of my dad’s favor
at birth, my wife’s forever when I told
her I wanted to sleep down the hall.
The doctor suspects I’m lying when I
I say not once, able and agile still.
Med school wisdom must be confirmed,
the bone truth of thinning hair,
cataracts, a heart that fails….
Once, years, ago, I flew on a red eye
coast to coast. The wings never trembled,
no dip in altitude. I read a story
about a judge who died of slow cancer
in 19th century Russia. His pain ended
when he thought his death would ease
his children’s suffering. He closed
his eyes, fell into a hole of light.
• • •
The Fiddler
Hardy’s father played
by the winter fireside—
tunes his son danced to, shoe leather
tapping on the stone floor.
He listened to the fiddler
at the country dance,
knew the Devil’s music
was a simple reel that whirled
a couple in a ring of fire:
broken vows, scattered rings,
lonely graves on the heath.
He bowed himself
on an odd Sunday, hymns
to a God that belonged
in ruined churches, Gothic windows
without stained glass.
His ballad ended badly
for a country girl with
an ancient name who slept
her last night on a stone older
than time. At the end
of his story, another fiddler
stood at the foot of his bed,
tall, emptyhanded.
“What is this?” he asked
and heard an unknown music
in the sick room air,
a tune without a name.
• • •
William Miller’s eighth collection of poetry, Lee Circle, was published by Shanti Arts Press in 2019. His poems have appeared in The Penn Review, The Southern Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner and West Branch. He lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.