Heather K. Robinson
you held me still
you would rake
there was the time
I threw your clothes
from the neck to the waist
The Color Green
I ate a crate of avocados
I can still see my mother driving her 79 mustang
we were stuck; tires feet deep,
hoping each remnant you would vanish
you broke the crystal frame, a gift
(taken from the first line of Winter Morning in Charlottesville)
the sky is no longer gray
more like oil with iridescent
purples shifting into greens;
resembling the oil puddle on our driveway,
overflow angled toward the garden,
which has become a stain, there almost a year.
you made no attempt to soak it up
with kitty litter or sand when fresh
and now its too late.
you could have used an oil pan
to prevent the blemish altogether,
but then what excuse would I have
to satisfy, to become your image
a great-horned owl tearing out tufts of hair
a rodent still in my sharp beak,
a yellow-eyed bitch for your amusement.
maybe then we would risk
having to speak about why you should fix the car,
save my tea roses from clusters of speckled foliage
and now there will be no buds or hips this year.
you could turn the conversation, speak
about my purpose; your stained jeans,
the elastic band in your underwear,
which has now become my mistake
as I look for safety pins,
and why would anyone notice
what doesnt belong to them.
rising, risking, having to speak
about something other
than disease at the breakfast table,
and who wants to be hostile after pancakes.
we may, by accident, sink too far
into our skin our selves
forgetting the others presence
and begin speaking secrets
we never intended to tell each other.
then I would have to share
I really love Robert Hass the same
way I love miniature paintings
the ability to scale down largeness
of landscape without losing detail
the effort to draw me toward closeness,
to notice largeness in the smallness of things.
you laugh at such intimacy, so I tell you without thinking
you cannot withstand the same proximity.
closeness only clarifies the flawed slope
of your nose, from a fight in the fifth grade, for a moment
and a right tilt of my head, backing away from your lips,
reminds me its only an illusion.
besides everything is a constant move,
an easing into a new mode
of being close and far away simultaneously
we can sit intently, heads bent over
our overseas coffee, the steam rising between us
on the first cold morning of the year
and not talk about anything.
|Heather K. Robinson is pursuing an MFA degree in poetry from Texas State University. She loves an All-American road trip and treks abroad living in Mexico and Germany for short periods of time. She teaches college writing and has worked as an editorial intern, advisor and reader for Southwestern American Literature, Front Porch Literary Journal, Words Work Literacy Journal and Persona. Heather's poetry is forthcoming in Bare Root Review.|