12gauge.com 2002

E. A. Robinson at Six

Snow builds against the door.
This inescapeable house,
on fire without any flames,
cold as Neptune though
nobody's shivering. Edwin

rocks in the chair, his mom
in the kitchen, his brother
gone to madness, the Maine
light like a ship
floating on Edwin's hair. Under

his breath he keeps asking,
"Why was I ever born?
Why was I ever born?." Mom
comes out and asks what's
wrong. No answer. Poems

take root in his blood.
He frowns, rocks,
and she returns to clattering pans.
He wants the day to end,
never to end. Dreams

sink sharp teeth in him.
It's better to stay put,
to feel the rocking motion,
a rhythm holding him
when all else lets go.

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