The eternal return of Goldilocks


There's this thing inside that crawls and burrows

until it finds a safe place, a known crevice.

Like a ferret, slim and dandy


a creature of the innumerable present.


The world is wide and the mind is small

so that wherever you set foot

you feel the ache of the familiar. 


There's always the now and what you are not

what can't be there, the long march home


and it's never what you remember.

The fire breathing, the chairs scraped around

the table and in the kitchen someone waiting


to call out your name as if a stranger.





Bare root


I dig until there are no more ancestors

and I have my feet in the unbearable mud   


like stalks.


Tall and awkward

I rise.


There's a gratitude in loneliness.

A new vestment, a catechism without belief,

spiraling in and out of itself.


I crane, the omens of vintage on my back.


This has been recorded:


    I fell from the great glaciers of Europe

    and the dune-paths.


    I found my Stalingrad along the wells of youth.

    I did not sleep.


    Nine spells nine I waited, until the past grew

    fractured and sallow under my nails.


I dig until my hands are raw again

and blackened with dirt.


Around me the silence of bees

that brush off the sky like a dream.





These things are not alike    #2


adam                eve (unless taken from the rib, in which case...)


a destination            a namesake, a match of skin


air from a stranger's mouth    breathing


infinitude            a string of children


how flowers amaze her    the delicate dragonfly's wing


a beginning            oftentimes by the sweat of your brow


a kiss                a kiss


a brief spell of     enlightenment    the naming of all things consequential


the song of her eyes        a blanket evening


fur & the thrill of mating    the indolence of a clear blue sky, the complete absence of clouds


a victim            a fall


root & branch & field of dreams        a home, preferably of    

                        your own 2 hands   


the moon whispering habit    a son a daughter a sacrifice


loss of things to say        serenade & darkness' breach


the feeling of your own    simple nonexistence

hand on your cheek,

simple nonexistence


an unforeseen pasture        a resting place, a well, a side-effect


earth & lullaby        a lifetime



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Milla van der Have (1975) is a Gemini. She writes poems and short stories and is currently knee-deep in a novel. Her poetry has appeared in Whale Road Review, After The Pause, and Cherry Tree, among others. She is the author of Ghosts of Old Virginny (2015, Aldrich Press), a chapbook about Virginia City, Nevada. Milla lives in The Netherlands, with her wife and 2 rabbits. 

Bill Wolack