by Amanda Rachel Robins
if we can survive our stepfather—One:
rock, as in how to sediment (& with
out) our skin & our cold elevation
& how coldly our tongues sink inside
our pondy throats Two: hole, for stretching in
to (eyes) (first); where to drop you(r) (w)hole body
when he’s done with it Three: desert, a ditch
ing; the abandoned earth; when the rain is
n’t easy with forget Four: sponge, what makes
you clean is already dead Five: salt, whose
preservation; whose brackish haze beneath
a raincloud; whose caustic broth, a bile at
the bottom of a cup (& alive &)
Six: echo, say (again) (& say) again
Amanda Rachel Robins works as a teacher in Missouri. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Apple Valley Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Sweet Tree Review, Slipstream, The Moth, Literary Mama, Crack the Spine, Atlas and Alice, and others. Her Twitter handle is @RRobins86
A-Minor 