Michael Robins

A Partial List of Truths

With a singular love, with a lump of guilt & closing the door where she wanders without direction. The stairwell with its strangers who press each morning a tender word to the ears of their animals. Promises like June & with them the share of any lake, what’s given for the carrot, the white bone, the apple to its core. With birds & sticks & their merciful distractions. She wakes now & leaves behind the stillness of the floor, no longer needing to answer when the children call, no more nearness to those few, essential words, nor the painless nothing that was.

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