1. Burn Pile
Trees speak the language of your silent wood.
Ashes are meant for everywhere and set
a wing-dust on the leaves, enough to fill
the empty lines of another’s fingertip.
There are weeds in the garden
and your diction’s gone.
Relax. There is nothing here
that won’t eat you – that would not
take you up against itself.
All that’s housed under the slice of moon
wears the lobster bib, for no part of you
isn’t full of sweet white meat.
3. Night Storm
Air rises to a pitch
that sticks in the throat.
Wind is sharking the huge pine
that leans toward the roof, and you wait
for the snap. Then, the soft rain.
It all falls in time —
another air, another weight,
4. And After
You will open either way
to find what your sore arms
can bring, like a warm
golden orb against the chest.
The answer is nothing,
a nameless stagger
and a voice going silent, less yours
with each day. You will always wait
for the right word.
“Waiting-for-a-Diagnosis Suite” was first published in The Georgia Review.
Christine Robbins grew up in Northern Virginia and has lived in Olympia,Washington for most of her adult life. She is a graduate of The Evergreen State College and received an MFA in creative writing from the Rainier Writing Workshop in 2012. Her poems have been published in The Georgia Review, Talking River Review and the …And Love… anthology (Jacar Press).