by Robin Myers

Why? This one was flat as an inlaid
headstone. It glittered like zirconia.
The sun seemed mostly interested
in exacting consequences.

I guess it’s not the ocean’s fault
that it keeps everything from
everything else. But I couldn’t not
imagine everyone around me in uniform.

It was the sort of place where that
was a logical thing to do. And where
I didn’t stay long enough to watch the tides
be tides, or remember the moon.


___

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.