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Michael Robins
Before We Ever Lived
Back in the extraordinary dark, my wife & daughter sleep, the boy’s neck makes a dreadful angle into one of the soft pillows on the pullout couch. Outside, inhabiting for a moment this land called Pennsylvania, I hold my hand to the chest-high hedgerow & where the beach rose used to live. Queen Anne’s lace dappling the hill before the dull white flowers give way to a second, unyielding hill of planted flags. The grasses grow new, clean stones while no one looks & I’d like relief from the storms that hammer our eastward hurry to a crawl. Although we know the moon travels ahead without us, it’s easier to believe we will not fall alone when our bodies return their glimmer to the stars.