• Jessica Lee McMillan


Jessica Lee McMillan © 2021

Tendrils reclaim a wall of their own, sun beggars up the chain link locking small climates of beauty in frame.

The meadow pops up in addict’s hideout, squatting at the church, a dirt mat under the elm, sloping concrete to mud river.

Is this dead end — a vagrant jewel —  still serene knowing the nightly assaults of pissholes and discarded pipes?

Are the poppies any less refuge for the eye  — or the stained glass reaching up the steeple, or the elm anchoring the alley in green light —  when their vision is dangled over the trash  — the skins of our damage?

Is the transcendent not galvanized in the frame of a chain link?


Jessica Lee McMillan © 2021

7 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All