The Domestication of Crows
The last of the moon needled beneath a tree & the wires that rarely carry voices anymore. A chair of books at the window, up under the curtains & the yard on the other side. Like a housefly. Like an acute trapezoid when, after drinks, your best friend’s older sister takes your hand under the table. Out of sight, bodies inching closer in the pool & she guesses the combination fixed to the day & month of your father’s birth. Years later, you’re hoping you remembered the stamp, a return address at least & still the strange man comes at you with his knife. Or that’s another night &, as though on a flying trapeze, everyone you kissed or ever wanted shows up & the flowers turn from gorgeous to something else entirely. Like they’re caught by the wheel of a truck & the crows up there an accident too, should one believe in accidents.
Michael Robins is the author of five collections of poetry, including People You May Know (2020) and The Bright Invisible (2022), both from Saturnalia Books. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The American Poetry Review, Bennington Review, The Best American Poetry, Court Green, and Mississippi Review. He lives in the Portage Park neighborhood of Chicago. More at ifyoulivedhere.substack.com.