I love it when my books are banned because it gives me the chance to speak out about why I think books shouldn’t be banned … The people who ban books generally don’t read the whole book. They just read a few pages, out of context. But, unfortunately, when they file a formal complaint against a book, we have to give these people the respect they don’t deserve…

The (Temporarily, Please God) Colicky Baby

How can a person
who weighs less than a leg of lamb
be so outrageously powerful?

How can someone
with fingers barely bigger than pine nuts
grip our entire house in her fist?

How can such a tsunami of sound
be created by such
eensy beensy vocal chords?

How can so much dissatisfaction
be communicated
without a single word?

How can someone
so thoroughly aggravating
be so astonishingly

adorable?               

New Year’s Resolution

I, Holly Miller, hereby swear
that I will never again
allow myself to be lured away
from my writing

by clicking
on those hideous headlines
that litter my computer screen
like landmines waiting to be stepped on.

So I am not going to click
on the article about the nasty insults
that Anderson Cooper slung at a celebrity mom
that prompted her to lash out.                                                           

Though I’m dying to know
which celebrity mom it was
and exactly what she and Anderson
said to each other.

And I am not
going to click on the article
about the location
of America’s greatest bathroom

(which
apparently was found
when “Pros Flushed Far and Wide
to Find the Best Spot to Tinkle”).

And even though
I do remember Ann-Margret
and I’m yearning to see
how she looks at sixty-seven,

I am not
going to click on the link.
I am not!
I am NOT!

Wow…

She looks good…

Christmas in Cleveland 

The four of us have gathered
to watch the “world premiere”
of the video montage
that Michael made for my mother.

There’s baby Samantha,
lying on her back in her crib—
floating on her little sheepskin cloud,
crowing along with her mobile’s tinkling song,
gazing up at its spinning pastel birds,
her arms flapping away
as if she wants to join them.                                                          

There’s Samantha dressed as Tinker Bell,
trick-or-treating for the very first time.
She runs up all the front walks
chanting, “Twick or tweet! Twick or tweet!”
But as soon as each door opens,
she clams up and buries her face in my skirt.

There’s Samantha doing a puppet show.
Wolf puppet says, “Hi!”
Bunny puppet says, “Hi! Hi!”
Wolf puppet says, “Hi! Hi! Hi!”
Bunny puppet says, “The end.”
Sam says, “Now I’ll do another one!”

And there she is, having a tea party
with Monkey, Wendy, Tess, and Laura,
sipping chocolate milk from teensy china cups
and nibbling on tiny pink cupcakes.

I glance over at my daughter,
all grown up now,
who raises an eyebrow and says,
“Did you bake those cupcakes for us?”
“Yes.” 
“And you made those place cards, too,
with our names all spelled out in glitter?”
“Uh huh.”
“Even that place card for Monkey?”
“Yeah…”

“Mom,” Sam says, shaking her head,
“you were out of control!”

But then
she flops down next to me on the couch
and gives me a bone-crushing hug.