the lunar fisheye watches me break my heart again
we are gas-lamp and exploring
sandbars, blooming estuaries
the terrain of their bodies
delta navels flowing cross-stream.
I apologize for my cold hands, stop
short of telling you old clichés of the black hole
that stretches me too thin: by morning
I have no name left for the collapsing
star of your mouth or the constellations buried
in my collarbone.
I want to tell you
about all the dead things
I brought to heel,
how they still grow fruit and daffodils in the garden:
how our names become incantations in the gloaming:
that dragging in your wake is a fine way to drown.
I lay awake wondering
if your limbs still grow towards mine,
if erasure has practical applications:
if you've seen the meeting of the waters,
if a lighthouse ever loved a storm.
Lora Robinson is a Maryland-born, Minneapolis-based poet, nonfiction writer and cat-mom to Shark and Thea. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Superfroot, Sad Girls Club, Crow & Cross Keys, Blue Mountain Review and Ethel Zine, among others. Her first poetry chapbook will be published in 2021 by akinoga press. Connect with her on Instagram @theblondeprive and Twitter @starsinmyteeth.