Lia Purpura, Parasol Mushroom (detail), featured in AGNI 102
Millie
She would eat fried eggs
for dinner and smell grease on her hands
all evening as she read to her father.
She would read Zane
Grey or let the silver cast
of TV bathe their faces like moonlight
on a row of summer cabins by the shore.
She would go to her room to slip
off her housecoat, then lie on the throw
rug and bite the salty
heel of her hand.
And her eyes, her cheap
mascara, would look exactly like a doll’s
when you place one on its back.
Published:

James Reiss
James Reiss is the author of the poetry collection The Breathers, from Ecco Press. Since then, he has published poems in The New Yorker and Esquire. (1975)
Related Articles
Morning Song
Poetry by James Reiss
Undulations
Poetry by Felicia Zamora
Self-Portrait as Desert
Poetry by Rodney Gómez
Search Engine
Poetry by Kristina Martino