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Wednesday, January 20, 2021


by Amy Elizabeth Robinson

So much blood
on his lie-drenched tongue.
Too much
to explore
in a poem. This poem

to turn in a new direction. 
It hears 
the heavy gates
of justice 
on his reign of infancy 
and terror.
It applauds 
the sharp-shinned 
of empathy
who guard the precarious 
scales. This poem
will not forget, yet

it turns
the dawn. 
You know this dawn, this
tender filigree of
sun-soaked web. 
The spiders have been spinning
all through the night.
Their webs of diligence,
and promise, and 
shimmer of delight. This poem 

insists on making
a plea deal
with the moment. Guilty
of exhaustion, 
it ends its 
fractured sentences
with care. 

Amy Elizabeth Robinson is a poet, writer, historian, mother, and many other things. She did live in the eastern mountains of Sonoma County, California, but her collectively-owned community recently burned in the Glass Fire. She is a community leader at Flower Mountain Zen, and her work has appeared in Literary Hub, Literary Mama, West Marin Review, West Trestle Review, Vine Leaves, Rattle’s Poets Respond program, and elsewhere. She blogs at