Robyn Art


 

Austerity Measures


On B-side of us like the gulf between lie and lay,
the porch steps where the hormonally-dredged
and weepy might sit with their warm beer
and the scent of hyacinth. Like any omnivorous species

we have a list of things that gets more luminous
at night: weather sealant; the iambic rain;
our early-rising and bedheaded girls.
I was alone once in ways beyond absences.
Daily I wake to you like a wildflower stunned by frost.
In what you once famously referred to as my earlier,

bullshit life, I remember shambling down the interstate,
humming and obtuse. In our small ways,
we have all joined the ranks
of the kinetically-disinclined. Being with you much
like being with the sky: vast, yet less cumulonimboid.
Today I heard about this jellyfish that's,

scientifically-speaking, immortal. All I want
is to grow a few things, mostly in pots.
If available, I'm all for living the bifurcated life.
It begins by water. It ends by water.

 

 


That Year


We priced couches online.
We were stalked by our insomniac past.
We got Asian-flavored takeout from the place in the mini-mall
and ate in the car, the engine running,
the light illusory and grey.
Often, not much got done.
We watched the progress of November,
ever-more defoliated and scabby.
We ate yogurt. Respirated. Tried to "get past it."
Abided the shrieks of the constipated infant
and the lone duck's lachrymose squawks.
I had all this laundry to do.
The feral cat problem was ongoing.
On TV, people ate larvae and cockroaches
or competed for plastic surgery giveaways,
everyone a polygamist or five hundred pounds or both.
We were massively beholden, similarly broken
and tremulous. The discovery of two new planets
meant the discovery of two new planets.
Backlit by a few wan stars, some nights were so dark
I could barely get my mouth on you.
Even this close to the city, our woods have something
Of woodness about them.

 

 

 

Safe Sex


In the idiom of deep afternoon, all is lambent and wacky: Like an ache that comes and goes, the heat-lightning’s bogus acoustics through the trees: As for me, I can survive virtually anywhere given a half-decent view of the sky: Wherever I was, you were what was missing: Get away from it awhile and the past opens up like the landscape does in Jersey, Just south and west of the Wawa line: Although you never really leave a place, you just stop being definitively there: Even with the always-pulled-brutally-awayward as the day slides towards its usual demolishment: Even though I never offered you the promise of love as anything less than acrobatic and lawless: Even as I was lost, vaguely amphibious, could not see to see, sunset spreading like the gash of the mouth, like the neighbor's drooping sunflowers, at once goofy and morose, busted-up and luminous: Baby, when I hold you it is always 1985