By William Miller
They remain, always, unknown continents
where coastlines might be seen, touched,
never the interior growth, the tall,
foreboding trees or the caves between
the rocks.
And when we shipwreck on the broken shore,
there may be giants looking down or dwarves
looking up. Their food isn’t nourishment
but poison from bitter herbs,
roots pulled up and thrown in a pot
tended by a witch. Better to stay
home than learn their secrets, the truth
told by them about us, bolt the door from
the inside. Only explorers die exploring–
a hand, a pick, above the ice.
William Miller’s ninth collection of poetry, Under Cheaha, was published by Shanti Arts Press in 2025. 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.