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I stayed kissed.
I said god, god
of the glacier letting go,
god that made the mouths
of Connecticut Valley men
strong after all that
rough weather. Hands
in your pockets, I pulled
you in. The air snapped
its ten-degree
fingers. Couldn’t tell
if every crackmoney tramp
in town was yours
already, but then—black sky,
blue stars, naked heat
at the fingertip hollow
of your neck—
that was home,
that was here.
I live there now.
I stayed.

Originally published in Northwest Review.

Amy Miller’s poetry has appeared in Nimrod, Rattle, Spillway, Willow Springs, and ZYZZYVA. Winner of the Cultural Center of Cape Cod National Poetry Competitiojudged by Tony Hoagland, and the Poetry Storehouse contest for videopoems, she has been a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize, the 49th Parallel Award, and the Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine. She works as the publications manager of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and blogs at Writer’s Island

Favorite poets: Anne Sexton, Claudia Emerson, Truong Tran and John Witte.

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