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.