Twenty years in this queendom where we made angels
in the magnolia’s rotten blossoms, floated toward
peace in the lap pool before the idea of a rover
spelled hello on Mars among all those disappeared
arroyos, each hope another coin in the slot
between knuckles vanishing. We never bothered
to pick the thyme this year, left bags of mulch
and river rock to fester over the pine stump,
its lightning-struck ghost-flume of green needles
and keening birdsong. Now, rainless months.
Interstate brushfires. The water smells of chlorine.
You add more compounds to your daily dosing,
acquire a new laugh and a shrinking left eye.
Your voice darkens as contrails splay their dreams
across the sky. Agoraphobia keeps you inside
while I hoist a thumb to blot out the sun.
Todd Robinson is the author of Mass for Shut-Ins (Backwaters, 2018). His work has recently appeared in The Adroit Journal, South Dakota Review, and Notre Dame Review. He is an Assistant Professor in the Writer’s Workshop at the University of Nebraska-Omaha and caregiver to his partner, a disabled physician.