The coffin where I keep my dead words
is open. The jewelry box, pink like young skin,
where I store trinkets is shut. The ballerina

inside her pink tutu face down
on her footed spring, waits for the hand
that opens her. She must be tired, always rising


Jane Miller’s poetry has appeared in the Iron Horse Literary Review, Summerset Review, cahoodaloodaling, Mojave River Review, and Pittsburgh Poetry Review, among others. A nominee for Best New Poets and Best of the Net, she was a finalist in the 2017 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Contest.

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