Michael Robins
One Month Later
Beads of candlewax floated across the water &, nearby, the purple
petunias & morning glories. The gifts of marionberry & vanilla but still
I read the poetries without understanding a word. It was the end of
hospital beds & a terrible price. Grief waltzed through in many forms,
unannounced & turning up forever. Who are you, I kept asking the
flowers. The bee on the lip of the coffee mug. A cup of orange juice in
the refrigerator. For a while the children wouldn’t know in what room
their mother died. Lincoln weed & sweet alyssum, another papery leaf
from the Kentucky wisteria drifting by. The objects stood & only for
themselves. Catnip & dill, marigold & an eastern cottonwood. I could
not visit the pawnshops, find in any meaningful way what was taken.
The Remaining Facts
On the hour, the full, shuffled week since you said goodbye, I said
goodbye. A pillow in your lap &, six days later, the boarding pass in the
pocket of your black sweatshirt. I remember touching your leg to wake
you &, if we erase the walls, you faced the ocean at the edge of the bed
waiting for your clothes. The torn nail from days ago (now nearly
healed) & my difficulty hooking your bra. Three, four steps outside &
I’ve been driving slower, like you asked, & letting go. Senseless
coincidence here in its rightful place & little more, not figurative nor
overblown yet we were waiting on one of many storms. Later, we left
the highway for a wooded drive & I learned the difference between
widow & widower. Then I kissed your head through a paper mask.
On the Eve of Autumn
The candles lit, candles blown, it was the summer plus change. A trio
of months in which no one pushed the clock forward & we only lately
tried pulling the hour & its ghosts insufferably back. A long weekend
lengthened into the lifetime & still, it wasn’t enough. The handwriting
pulled with the masking tape from the jar of raisins &, just a moment
later, the days & nights equally. The sparrow mangled in a box the size
of a child beneath the deck. The force of language for such things. The
calling of the moon a fingernail while the streetlight glows at the edge
of the house. The boy who’d never seen his father cry, said so when we
knelt above the dog, a thousand years ago, & whispered our goodbyes.
Michael Robins is the author of five collections of poetry, including People You May Know (2020) and The Bright Invisible (2022), both from Saturnalia Books. He lives in the Portage Park neighborhood of Chicago.