I float on a raft suspended
between sky and surrender.
A gibbous moon glares
from my bedroom window,
white mist at her cresting hips.
Five days ago, I began gulping back
gelatinous green and yellow globes
used to treat nightmares.
The pills are not working.
Tonight, even my fat black cat
will not keep me company.
I imagine tangling my fingers through
the dark tufts of curls on your chest.
Your lips waltzing across
the stark relief of my collarbone.
Imagine I am not the shattered pieces
of a ceramic skeleton thrown to floor.
Imagine I can share a bed with you
and manage to sleep through the night.
Imagine insomnia is not known to me,
a word so foreign it won’t translate.
Five a.m. leers, mouth twisted
and bent, a cheap Halloween mask.
My chest becomes a moon-hollow cave
where wounded animals go to die.
I am the country radio station static
a long haul trucker sings along to
as he barrels down barren Vermont roads.
I am the naked black branches of a Gingko
in November, all its golden leaves gone
in a single decisive breath.
Robin Kinzer (She/her)
Robin Kinzer is a queer, disabled poet and sometimes memoirist. She was once a communist beaver in a PBS documentary. She previously studied psychology and poetry at Sarah Lawrence and Goucher Colleges and is now an MFA candidate at University of Baltimore. Robin has poems recently published, or shortly forthcoming in Little Patuxent Review, Wrongdoing Magazine, Fifth Wheel Press, Gutslut Press, Defunkt Magazine, and others. She loves glitter. She can be found on Twitter @RobinAKinzer.