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.