Afternoon
The day reclined,
declined, opined. Light
on the grass. The want of grass
on the bald soil. The shine
of it. A sign. Simple. What
resists being
defined, wanting more.
Healing Simile
As long as two bodies lay parallel in a bed. As long
as tea cools. So long as the body sways to
soften pain, like the body, into the body, over the
body. Respite like a preposition, sweating through
it. Like something hovering above itself, suffusing
itself. Like hands whose fingers are parallel.
Or intertwined. Like the exhaustion of recovery,
loyal, as long as it sleeps beside itself.
Cipher:
pain is bland, and relief fraught.
The body is a mind made of clods of soil.
Digging. The columbine pulled up from
its earth, roots twitching.
Blue Smith Corona
So it came to pass. The carriage returning,
like so, on the typewriter. So it claimed,
and the bell rang. So you say. The key
stamping the page, perfunctory. And so on.
And so on. Interpretation was not a gloss.
It said so as it said so.
Swelling
Soft as a cyst, not hollow, but
willing to give
way to pressure.
You would
correct what posits
itself as a rightful
presence. Pop it.
Rupture is not
an undoing.
The sac re-fills, frenetic.
The upside of
what has no purpose
and no remedy
is its resilience.
Circular
Best day, best sleep, best nothing, best
pause. How the quiet pines for itself.
How the pine tree shushes. Sleep
waking itself up, no stake in the dream,
just the circular best of time shushing, pining,
sleeping through itself.
Elizabeth Robinson is the author of several books of poetry, most recently Rumor from Free Verse Editions. Her book, Vulnerability Index, is forthcoming from Ahsahta Press in 2019. With Jennifer Phelps, she co-edited Quo Anima: innovation and spirituality in contemporary women’s poetry—also forthcoming in 2019—from University of Akron Press.