by Amy Elizabeth Robinson
So much blood
on his lie-drenched tongue.
Too much
to explore
in a poem. This poem
chooses
to turn in a new direction.
It hears
the heavy gates
of justice
closing
on his reign of infancy
and terror.
It applauds
the sharp-shinned
hawks
of empathy
who guard the precarious
scales. This poem
will not forget, yet
it turns
towards
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 www.turningplanet.org.
