by JK Miller
We played with our fingers over the surface of the
spongy, moon-like sourdough, rovers dipping
into the Misir Wot, the Kik Wot, and the Shiro Wot,
roaming around the teff mons, and it wasn't long
before, in Lalibela's on Fairfax, sitting across from each
other at the small, square table,
with the moon in front of us, we tried to perform the act
of Gursha. Tearing off a piece of the bread, I scooped up
beets and potatoes and placed them in your mouth.
Our old house has been sold, I said. Re-sided and landscaped.
And you tore off a piece with collards and ginger and
cried as you put it in my mouth. It's been ten years since
I spoke to Mom. I could use some good memories. I wiped
your face with a clean finger: You were born one week
before Hurricane Andrew. We had to stop the car to nurse you
at the Miccosukee gas station, which is why we finally listened
to the warnings and turned back. And when you were one,
you rode in the back seat with us from Florida
to the Upper Peninsula, and we camped every night for a month,
unfolding tumbling mats from the trunk and laying
on them in the tent together, your mom and I taking turns
reading stories aloud until we all fell asleep in one big heap,
like Atakilt Wot – cabbage, carrots and potatoes.
JK Miller is a former third grade dual language teacher. He lives on the edge of cornfields. He is the first prize winner of the 2025 Helen Schaible International Sonnet Contest. In the summer of 2025 he completed a solo 1,335-mile bicycle ride from his house to his son's house to see his newborn grandson.
January House Literary Journal 
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