Three Poems


Ode to Wellbutrin
 

Heat pours into this bowl
of valley, and no one points a finger. 
It makes dried fruit of the living room,
jerky of meat, empties the dog’s
water bowl. Not a scorching, 
but a burning off of early morning
fog. This is hard to explain.

What is love if not something
you can count on, something
that has always been there?
White pills and brown pills
that siphon light for the kiss
of white noise. A hymnal of radio
static. A storm softly breaking.
This is almost a feeling.

When I am with you, time
splays out like a flat gray circle.
Something like a headache
that never takes form. 
My sweet, my succubus, 
if we were to point a finger, 
where would we point?

 

 

 

 

 

God with a Small Face
 

I imagine God is like me, when it’s too cold to move
from the boy’s bed to the bathroom, and I get to thinking
about how many people that really love me, know me. 
I imagine God prefers anyone to Ginsberg. Has a best friend
out of town. Can’t find car keys, too wasted last night. 
Averts the swarm of eyes on the first bus home. Understands
no one is looking, no noun is permanent, nothing is all there is. 
My God likes film, hates dark theaters. Heightened awareness
promotes anxiety. The world at small feeling large. A desert
weighted on the shoulders of every passerby, and God, always
last to leave bed. I imagine God at the bus stop wearing shorts, 
having underestimated the cold. She pulls her socks up
for warmth and feels embarrassed about who knows what. 
Oh well, God says, Some days this, other days that.

 

 

 

 

 

Blesséd
         after Sam Sax
 

Blesséd  is  the  synonym  &  the  man who said  it  first  &  blesséd is
the prose poem  &  the  flagrant  plagiarist.  Blesséd  is  the  vessel & 
the  buoyancy  of  blood  &  blesséd  is  the light  that leaves the eye
an  aqueduct.   Blesséd  is  the  meter  maid  &  political  correctness
&  blesséd  is  the  seventh  day  &  those that  it’s  afflicted.  Blesséd
are   the   mournings    &     blesséd   is   this   ground    &     blesséd   is
Trayvon  Martin,   forever   seventeen.   Blesséd   is America/    land
that I love
/  stand beside her/  & guide her  /through the  white-fanged
night/  godless & guilty & hungry for more.

 

 

 

 

 

Robin Estrin doesn't have much to say, and would rather not. She is a student of literature, creative writing, and politics at the University of California, Santa Cruz, and has work forthcoming in Miramar Poetry Journal. She tweets occasionally @robzmobz