An Hour Before the New Year
James Miller
An hour before the new year,
our hosts retreat to their bedroom
for a call home. Their house waits
in Caracas, locked but not empty.
After, Jorge’s father finds English
words to show us his wife’s
tiny things.
Bicycles made of woven wire
and cloth, though there are no riders
to take their thumb-seats. Close-ribbed
baskets ready to hold a half-dozen
butterscotch giftings.
We dance, and rest ourselves.
Over the fireplace, hand-breadth wise
men are looking for a way down,
to the manger on the hearth.
The Christ-child is still
too new for a face.
Jorge’s mother watches
as her husband pulls a painting
from the wall, then another. They rest
easy in his palm. My Nelli,
she made this—and this.
When the time draws in,
we stand circled, each holding
a plastic cup full of seedless
green grapes. I cannot swallow
them all, in ten seconds’ slurping
of skin-sloughed sweet
James Miller is a native of Houston, Texas. His poems have appeared in Sweet Tree Review, Cold Mountain Review, The Maine Review, Lullwater Review, Lunch Ticket, Gravel, Main Street Rag, Verdad, Juked, The Write Launch, The Shore, Menacing Hedge, Califragile, The Atlanta Review, and elsewhere.