by Robin Myers
for the Australian journalist who published an article about having a miscarriage during the fires
of January 2020
I am a child and think the light has made the dust, that dust is bodiless without it. it’s bodiless all right, but every- where. and everywhere expands: a seething air, the substrates churned, words hounded, smoked out of their dwellings. we are, it seems, more mesh than vessel, a cloth that breathes the stuff of worlds unsafe for us to drink. I always hoped to trust this porousness, wanted my skin a cipher for the brume of human hurt and wasted time, our designs on surfaces of magnitudes we should respect. I take my longing back. or wish I could. you are, like me, like all of us, I’d like to think— before our own extra- polation into numbers, thaw and diesel, clocks and watersheds— a window- gleam, the opposite of shadow, a way to make some fellow matter visible. and I, a child, reach out my hand to touch you—you who are not what you harbor but in whose form it shines. ____
Robin Myers lives in Mexico City and works as a translator. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Yale Review, the North American Review, Alaska Quarterly, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. Her book-length collections have been translated into Spanish and published in Mexico, Argentina, and Spain. She writes a monthly column on translation for Palette Poetry.