WHICH CANNOT BE DELIVERED
I CAN NEVER PUT A BIRD IN A POEM BECAUSE MY NAME IS ROBIN AND THAT IS NOT FAIR
The first man
who found a cave thought
I’ll never want for anything again.
The man under me
reaches up
to squeeze
my neck
to see if I am into that.
Someone says
Hedgehogs are the new foxes.
His face is a cup.
Pain sloshes from his eyes.
I have rearranged the furniture
three times this week.
Something just feels wrong.
Who is hurting who
and why keep doing this
if no one is having any fun.
Wasps are horrifying to me
because I’ve never been stung.
Online is where they keep
all the things I can’t afford.
We put a box in a field of flowers.
We crawl inside the box.
We line the box
with floral wallpaper.
Someone says
Floral wallpaper is in for 2020.
I am trying not to say
I want to be stung.
Back then I lied about the bruise.
A Visiting Writer had tried to use me
like a rudder
like he was the captain
of my kitchen.
Of my own goddamn kitchen.
The walls were white
and lined with knives.
I suppose that was
my first mistake.
Someone says
Sloths are the new hedgehogs.
The woman from
Target customer service
tells me to stop calling them
about the Myna Tufted
Armchair with Brass Legs
from Opalhouse™ in Forest Green.
She says I am just going to have to
wait for the restock notification.
My first blood orange was a surprise.
I thought What creature is in here
all curled up and pierced.
It was just my own thumbs
sloughing the rind.
I could be happy in a cave.
We put a box in the abysmal ocean.
We crawl inside the box.
We put a fish in a fishbowl in the box.
You can tell a human being
by their eyes.
They are always beautiful.
If they are not beautiful
one of you is not human.
When my brain is doing
something else I’ll notice
my left hand holding
my right breast.
This breast is my sister.
The other is my accountant.
I don’t complain
about the snow anymore.
Any time could be
the last time.
One effect of Lexapro
they don’t tell you about
is that you fall in love with everyone
even if you don’t like them very much.
My sister sleeps
on the edge of a knife.
Pierre Paul Broca said
I would rather be
a transformed ape
than a degenerate son of Adam.
That was after he cut
open all those brains.
California is burning
in God’s breast pocket.
Eiffel engraved Broca’s name
on his eponymous tower.
We put a box in the bleached sky.
We crawl inside the box.
A bird could go right here
in the cave of my cupped hands.
Robin LaMer Rahija lives in Lexington, KY. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in FENCE, Guernica, Diagram, and elsewhere. She is the managing editor of Rabbit Catastrophe Press. Twitter: @LamerRobin Instagram: @robinlamerrahija Website: robinlamerrahija.com