“Umbrella” by Amy Miller

Amy Miller


Someone said Watch
the baby, so I watched her
sleep, small mouth with 
a bubble at the edge. Hands
like little double OKs. All
of human history pulsing
in the shallow vein
of her temple. A thin beige
umbrella over her head, 
raindrops exploding 
themselves against it, 
trying to touch her.

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist


Amy Miller: “I am not a baby person. Grew up the youngest kid in my extended family, never liked babysitting, never had kids of my own. When somebody passes me a baby I freeze, holding this squirmy little creature. And yet … I was a school photographer’s assistant in my 20s, and found that I loved working with kids, especially the little ones who needed help blowing their noses and combing their eyebrows (that’s a thing in photography). It was actually one of the most thought-provoking jobs I ever had, although I constantly had the flu. Now when somebody hands me a baby, it’s still awkward but also sort of epic. Time and galaxies collide.” (web)

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