Dana Miller
Mint Metallic
Sally the Swain was my breakdown voltage phaser,
all pommy standing there in the diarmuid wreaths.
Anything can take you to the teddybear hospital like that.
It could be oxeye daisies and tamarind treacle.
It could be neon fizz.
It could be a red fuzzy sweater and that twirling clock of the calque.
I crisscross the ocean with my leather steamer trunk
to our tumbledown cottage by the gemstone foam,
all stray capacitance and imaginary PB&J.
Nevermind you have beached sea dragons on purpose.
The same day I woke up in the paisley underground,
I dreamt you and I were the Disco Pigs
selling Pork Sitty, round and round,
naked eyes trained on Andromeda spiral.
Oh–you know my petal, forever chiral.
Like the golden blood of the aboriginal girl,
like the Junaluska apple found under the rat’s last damn,
Night time 90s rockets, sunspheres, and Toad the Wet Sprockets; This is what I am.
Dana Miller is a wicked wordsmith, giggling provocateuse, and mega-melomaniac from Atlanta, Georgia. Her poetic syllables like to trundle in the wilds—usually in search of a smackerel or two. On their way, they have found themselves featured in Postscript Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, Fairy Piece, Sledgehammer Lit, FERAL: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Small Leaf Press, Tofu Ink Arts Press, and Nauseated Drive. When not wielding a lethal pen, Dana adores surf culture, Australian grunge rockers, muscle cars, Epiphone guitars, glitter, Doc Martens, and medieval-looking draft horses with feathered feet. Oxford, England is her spirit-home and Radiohead is holding the last shard of her girlhood heart.