Two Poems
Robin Sinclair
When your world is ruled by another,
you are forced to perform, to spit,
to jump,
to be cruel when all you want is to be beautiful.
When your world is ruled by another,
you are forced to perform, to spit,
to jump,
to be cruel when all you want is to be beautiful.
It’s a chore parsing whispers, so tiring to listen.
To abandon my ghasts on sea air would be harm;
ceding ash to dry wind, gunpowder to lightning.
It’s been miles since
and still, little pink,
you shed amber
glow in my palm,
gurgle-chirp
in your cradle
of nebulous honey.
It sings for me to reenter familiar steps. It calls my right hand
home under my katana’s guard and for my knees to bend as I wait
for the rhythm. It is a pity most never see the end of this dance.
where is your blubber? it is colder here than you
in this nuclear winter untouched by sun, this liminal
territory peopled by animals, inhabited by blondes
and blue-eyes. you don’t see the history of predation:
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