by Matthew J. Robinson

koroscha

“3.10I,” acrylic on cotton, by Martin Koroscha, 2010. Licensed under Creative Commons.

Although we died the moment we met,
we believed we could shun nothingness
by getting married, act as a paradigm
for those just beyond giving up.

The ruse held for fourteen years:

We produced two children, took out two mortgages,
fought roughly twice a week. I accused you
of turning the knob of the door
we shut together. You took me to task
about my insatiable need to recalibrate our purpose.

Sleep occurred by mistake;
dreams were next-day dilemmas.

A neighbor left a note
that our yard needed rejuvenating.

You watered the lawn with gasoline while I
glued thorns to the hedges. We agreed,
it was nice to do something together again.

Published 21 January 2013

Matthew J. Robinson’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in kill author, Dinosaur Bees, Blue Five Notebook, and The Rusty Nail, among others. He lives in Seattle and tweets @mtthw_rbnsn.

Newsletter

Sign up for our irregular newsletter and be informed of upcoming contests. You can opt out anytime with the click of a button.

Active Contests

Contests are presently open in Poetry, Flash Fiction, Creative Nonfiction, and Short Fiction. Visit the Contests Page for information.

Anthologies

Medallions


submit