CHRISTINE ROBBINS

THE BIRMINGHAM ROLLERS MIGHT PECK THE DOVES TO DEATH


Not jealousy. But on the stoop,
White feathers.

                                    I won’t conflate
                                    The aviary birds with how
                                    I am a croucher –

How I splay my words
In good-person red
And on the stoop,

                                    White feathers.
                                    I have stooped. I have

Conflated my want
And my need – my mouth
And my sight. Not for you,

                                    I leave her be.

Ripped feathers,
Impotent flight.

                                    Some birds –
                                    They go for the eyes.

The aviary birds – rollers
Conflated with doves –
Diminished.

                                    Red blood on the beak,
                                    Feathers in violet light.

Words
Ripped red
In the white cowed head.
But no –

                                    I’m the croucher.
                                    Not for you

My words conflate
With teeth –
With the horrible mouth
Of the good. Not

                                    Jealousy. But I have
                                    Diminished. I’ve stooped

To collect the feathers.
I’ve filed down
My violet teeth.

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LIGHTHOUSE, AMERICA

The shore-width matters
And the land is strange.

                                    Impotent watcher, I
                                    Watch for you. I bring
                                    My want for wanting. I watch
                                    I watch the light.

And the sand grows colder
In the dark. I think
I’ll look away. I pour

                                    The sand from pockets.
                                    The shore is shrinking
                                    And the sand. And I

Could warm your hand
Against the friction
Of myself. But little else.

                                    I grow scared of the light,
                                    The way it scans.
                                    Re-named harbor –

It’s time that turns
Away. The turning
Light is a handless arm.
And the shore is shrinking

                                    And the land grows strange.
                                    And I think I’ll turn
                                    Away. I think I’ve failed

Your body – my hand
On nothing but the thought
Of your heat. The sand

                                    Grows cold and I think
                                    I’ll look away. But
                                    Little else. The sea

Is warming and I
Grow cold. I drag
My freezing body, alone,

                                    Worm it through the sand.
                                    I pour the sand from pockets
                                    And the light

Is reaching and
I do not want to see.
The sea is rising and we

                                    Are growing old. The shore’s
                                    What mattered and I think
                                    I am afraid. And the sea.
                                    And I think I might be

Shrinking. I think
I am alone. I think
You never stood beside the sea.

                                    I think I’m growing
                                    Strange. The light

Is a lidless eye.

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TYPO 25