Poetry, Robin Chadwell
Light
I have kept my gaze
so low.
Shoulders hunched,
I drag my feet from the bed to the table to the bed,
leaning against the wall like a shadow
slipping through the cracks—wait
it’s 5pm.
My bottom lip quivers,
eyes recognize something.
You’d think it was my old dog
or dead father stepping through the west window,
a memory of last year before it went dark:
late night goodbyes,
sleep without clothes,
all the time in the world,
light.
Still Not Ready
Can’t stop thinking about what it means to eat an animal
or how to care about a person
without being selfish. In the meantime I am a vegetarian.
Haven’t had sex in six months and I’m still not ready.
I inherited my father’s hunting rifles - is that the way?
I slept on the floor beside him as he died.
I ate a hamburger the other night
because the craving was so strong. My friend said:
“No shame in it. You need iron.” No shame? Please.
New wave pop psychology
all about being unapologetic.
Very stupid.
Robin Chadwell lives in the green mountains of so-called Vermont. She spends her time organizing against US imperialism and tending to her garden. Her poetry has been published by the Hudson Valley Writers Guild, The Scapegoat Review, The Hyacinth Review, Drip Literary Magazine, among others. Find her on Instagram at @robinchadwell.
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