Poetry by Jules Miller
You Shouldn’t Love Me
because someone will shoot you over it.
i want to say this
to my students, to the thirty-eight
eyes that watch me cross the carpeted floor
every monday, wednesday, friday,
while I tell them about tone and voice
and how to use it.
there’s a rock in the center of campus
that someone dumped paint on—and good
god, they covered it up in my colors—and if you love
me, you need to know i checked my phone all shift
because i didn’t know if the sirens meant they’d shot you for it.
i could only watch the red and blue lights
paint outlines on the windows while i scanned barcodes
and didn’t correct anyone who called me ma’am.
just the other day, i saw you, and you calmly got up
as a cicada crested over the hill of your chair,
and someone else said get me a flip-flop
and someone else did, and you caught it as it flew
in a perfect arc over the conference table and you worked together
to make the classroom safe again
and you all settled right back in, got back to work
on writing and the meat of it, on hearing each other
in the vessels of your words, in making them cross the space
from one of you to another, and you laughed, and you breathed,
and i think god, how could i have lost you?
i’m telling you because i know you love me, because you saw me
lock the door once everyone was there, hung back
after class and said thank you like a prayer.
going nuclear
i want to dive into the cooling pools
she says, young student, fluffy
hair piled high & half-dyed.
even though they’re radioactive.
i’m visiting their classroom.
she tells me math & science are more her thing.
i tell her i am a poet, that i’m trying
to get hired to teach people like her.
she laughs. says that she wants to work
at the nuclear power plant, that she’s taking
online classes but that doesn’t compare
to the real thing.
it’s crystal clear because they filter it so many times.
she shows me pictures she saved on her phone:
neat cubes of water, locked in on all sides
by rust the color of clay.
[i think of the month-old text sitting unsent
in my phone: my dream
job doesn’t matter anymore. i need to live.]
they make everyone keep ten feet away from the edge
at all times she says. i think they know that people want in.
i ask her if she would jump
if she had the chance.
of course.
don’t you see how beautiful it is?
Jules Miller is a poet who puts trans life and the natural world into conversation in his work, which has appeared in Quarterly West, Carolina Muse, the Gilbert-Chappell Distinguished Poet Series, and others. He graduated in 2024 with an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. He tries to enjoy the little things in life, and as such, is a dedicated caretaker to many shrimp. Website: https://julesmillerpoet.tumblr.com/.
Arcturus 