Lindsay Miller won the Denver Citywide Spelling Bee in seventh grade, kicking off an illustrious life of being a total word nerd. She studied creative writing at the Denver School of the Arts and the University of Arizona, is a Founding Mama of the Tucson Poetry Slam, traveled the country with Doc Luben as the Smaller Shark Poetry Tour, and has never really mastered the art of the indoor voice. She is now an MFA Writing & Poetics student at Naropa University. Her work has been published in The Legendary, The Nervous Breakdown, FutureCycle and Mingle Wood and
is forthcoming in Borderlines, Breadcrumb Scabs and The Battered Suitcase.
I have been putting bees in your mouth
while you sleep. I’m sorry.
I only meant for them
to drip honey in your throat,
so you would wake to sweetness.
I didn’t know your lungs were green
and fertile, that a spark of pollen
would ignite a petaled fireball
in your chest. When it’s hard to breathe,
remember there’s a garden inside you.
When your ribs ache,
it’s because you’re coughing up daffodils.