Without A Roof

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

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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.


In Defense of Danish Tourists
There’s nothing quite like criticism from outsiders to spur irrational defenses of our own narrow status quo.