The Poetry of Tamara Miles

“Before a bulldozer came to flatten/the house, neighbors knew it would happen, looked/out from their late poker games and pool cues,/lifted bottles to the past, when we were/still alive, not quite in our beds, under/fresh paint, admiring our trophies or coin/collections, not so much dust yet in cracks,/ fewer dents in our desks, fathers had put/primer on, then a finish coat.”—Tamara Miles

Speculative Friction

By Claire Bateman, Poetry Editor

GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—May 2025—Tamara Miles says she has always loved poetry and all forms of literature, which is why she became a college English teacher. Her work has been published in a variety of journals and anthologies, including Fall Lines, Oyster River Pages, and The Tishman Review, among others. She has had many wonderful opportunities to read publicly, both in the US and abroad. For the last few years, she has served as the president of the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Miles’ approach to writing poems is to choose something to examine, to celebrate, or to grieve, because this is how memory serves us. She is relentlessly curious about nature, animals, strange news headlines, and other sources of inspiration. A mentor once told her she has a habit of starting a poem in her “teacher voice,” and then only eventually getting around to the feeling. This is still true, but Miles says she is trying to get to the feeling sooner. The poet lives in Elgin, South Carolina with her fiancé David and two adorable dogs.

 

The Venous Lake
By Tamara Miles

On my bottom lip, a dark blue spot
that crosses the vermillion border,
never goes away, noticeable
when I am not wearing any lipstick.
Dilated blood vessels—a macule
resulting from too much sun or age.

Venous as in veins, not planet with
its lost moon or Maat Mons volcano,
carrying blood to my own heart,
rose or myrtle bearing its arrow.
A tiny map of Italy here,
Lake Garda, Lake Como, on my lip,

or a cooled lava lake on Venus.
I stand in front of the mirror now,
blow clouds across its surface, wonder
at the secrets in its atmosphere,
like words hidden on the dark bottom
of the ice-heavy lake of my lips.

Before a Bulldozer
By Tamara Miles

Before a bulldozer came to flatten
the house, neighbors knew it would happen, looked
out from their late poker games and pool cues,
lifted bottles to the past, when we were
still alive, not quite in our beds, under
fresh paint, admiring our trophies or coin
collections, not so much dust yet in cracks,

fewer dents in our desks, fathers had put
primer on, then a finish coat. Before
termites colonized, their queen grew helpless
in her egg-laying chamber, a bath filled
with warmth waited, curtains begged to be closed,

to contain us safely for the night. Our
mothers dreamed or cursed over dishes, last
piece in a jigsaw. Bookcases grinned out
from level shelves, in our shed a voiceless
miter saw. Baseboards winked at tucked carpet,
leaves and pine needles underfoot; we
climbed the cedar roof, three shingles thick,

before the fire, before we jumped, when we
were still doing our math homework, the dogs
played chase me, chase you, before shrubs turned black,

a foundation, a garden that breathed us
into the house, rainwater bid us good
morning. We tiptoed across school-day floors,
to keep from awaking the still-sleepers,

out to a bus where we shivered, looked back
to see if someone was watching before
those faces at the window kept the flames
from us and said go, run, run, and after
that all we saw was smoke.

To order copies of Claire Bateman’s books, Wonders of the Invisible World, Scape, or Coronology from Amazon, click on the book covers below.