Without A Roof

Robin Richardson is the author of Knife Throwing Through Self-Hypnosis (...

 

Good god I’m gorgeous, open
on the operating table, so impeccably pink
pearl you could drape me on a hotel heiress,
make a mint. It is a costly transformation:

girl to goddess, curve to cosmic pin-up,
star-strong in a homemade aristocracy.
The ring, I mean. The one he gave me days
before I lifted like some unfeeling winged

thing on a plane that didn’t crash.
What’s worse, I’m well, not huffy, hidden
from the day, not having ended anyone,
unsympathetic in the most exquisite way.

Nude, open on a billboard in the Amazon
as pythons crawl inside to please.
He disapproves: the carefree sovereignty,
almost anorexic silhouette. They say

it’s tactless to be happy, living is an exercise
in letting go, existence as a river runs
its course regardless of our ripples, but
they’re wrong. I’m running with it wrapped

around me, a translucent, minnow-print
kimono, full of flow, and following
a pathless cut through careless wood.
There’s freedom in what no one knows.

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