when you are the only light
on the highway, I hope
you feel my spindle
fingers twisted in
your curls, remember
spiders on your neck
weaving wicked tapestries,
my voice crackling like
our pipes in winter.
on the coldest nights
clutch your hands,
your chest- do you remember
milk and honey, naked and
spread over crimson sheets, frayed
nails dredging the bays of your back,
nicotine-stained and brackish because
I could not bear another night
drunk. alone.
read my poems, hung on the walls
like epitaphs- board up the windows
and doors, build a mausoleum
visit when you need to remember
a jeweled hummer fluttering on
your porch in fading sunsets, fireflies
beating on glass and wood.
remember the days you forgot
to feed the wilting orchids-
how you let them die.
Lora Robinson is a Minneapolis-based poet, nonfiction writer and cat-mom to Shark and Thea. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Superfroot, Sad Girls Club 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
photo by Anton Darius (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 