Robin Beth Schaer



I am here again, in the iron-braced dark
where we reassemble ourselves as strangers.
Each of us obedient, drawn belowground,
drowsy as pilgrims.

Recognition here is myopic: I know
only aerosol and exhaustion, shoulder
seams, a port-wine stain, and your secret, still mouth.
Swallowed in tangles,

legs and arms I cannot discern or follow
press me, like the freedom of grass, to let go,
lean in. There is nowhere to fall. I would not
trade this for surface,

but the end comes sudden as breaking. We leave
our fluorescent privacy, stumble off, gone
mute as plastic horses, unspoiled and blank-eyed,
almost a small tribe.