Robert Wilson is a teacher and poet living in the Mid-west, my poems have most recently appeared in the Lily Poetry Review and the Pinyon Review.
A nest wedged between the lower limbs
of a Chinese maple,
a kind of fruit well within my reach.
Inside the red shade, penny eggs,
pale turquoise, the same color
as that picture from space
of the one remaining earth.
I move a safe distance away,
count my breath backwards from three,
and a robin appears, sits cross-kneed
inside her mud and grass porch.
I watch the evening light pass through
her body, her dull orange chest
the color of regret.
Cancer: A Love Poem
We waded barefoot along the sandbar,
trespassed up the launch site,
walked the public pier
where we used my fish knife
to carve aliases,
Glow Girl and American Infidel,
in the salt-hardened railing.
We hid in your parents’ bathroom
where I used your mother’s tweezers
to pull urchin spines out of your foot,
anointed the puncture wounds
with hydrogen peroxide.
We lay together in the guest bed
where we came up with the perfect alibi:
the sand in the sheets could have belonged
And when you spoke in broken
chemo brain English, telling me sea foam
is ocean-scented soap in a hurry,
I kissed your eyelashes that you stopped
cutting to grow out in tiny feral sneers,
and thought of the summer seagrass thick along
the flats, sunlight moving through as easily
as forgiveness is bestowed upon all of God’s