BOMBYCILLA

 
the soprano clears her throat
a manicured right fist
the colour & quickness
of waxwing rests against
her bottom lip’s full perch.
in her lowest register,
It is you …

 
who rush between cars
or waits for light to change.
you in place in places exactly.

 
at the crosswalk, you gain this past
by a lost future.

 
white iris glows at dusk blind-eyed;
inukshuks are lamp posts; balding men
with ponytails have no sense of humour.

 
in the mezzanine, a widower’s mute
anguish rolls down his face. perspiration
rivers the soprano’s silk-bound cleavage
as she comes to the point of all this.

 
his middle-aged lover whispers, cut
your hair, seeks to restore his smile;
jealous & unseen, a boy upends piled stone;
they flower once, in spring, then sleep.

 
we’re waiting for eyes to open.

 
the moon can’t care that he is beloved
although every month he opens; he tries.

 
what is it about that pre-climactic arch
that makes the fall more? what is—
becomes what kills this but cures that,

 
like the soft coos of the husband’s
desire against another wife’s cheek.

 

Bio:

stephanie roberts was published last year in twenty-nine periodicals, in North America and Europe. A 2018 Pushcart Prize nominee, she grew up in Brooklyn, NY, and now abides in a sleepy town outside of Montréal. Twitter shenanigans @ringtales.

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