Keep Mississippi Beautiful

All the way until the magnolia state to finally see the cows hotfooting
their field & we too were undoubtedly grateful having missed the
accident by minutes, livelihoods & lifetimes bent in the awkward
angles. A hundred miles earlier, the kids wanted to know if driving is
hard. I did my best, which feels like the middle lane when a tree falls
across the interstate, no one waiting around to say, When you next
travel this road your wife of a decade will be dead, your children will
have grown, you’ll mostly leave what you thought you’d love for good.

*

See You Next Time

Whispering to the hours among the corners of grief. Like an animal
curled in the middle of the floor & such symbols everywhere, wishing
but rooms with separate bowls of ice cream, just kids & some six
hundred miles apart, a long shot if we ever met. Early morning
showers, even the fish taking sides by skipping meals. I miss you, &
later these late goodbyes until there’s nothing left to say. A little
hungover, I know, & a single strand of hair. The half-eaten cicadas &
enough. It’s been a rough summer, I think aloud before writing it down.
To be everywhere at rest. To be at once. I mean September flying.

*

Michael Robins is the author of five collections of poetry, most recently The Bright Invisible (2022) and People You May Know (2020), both from Saturnalia Books. He lives in Lake Charles, Louisiana, where he teaches in the MFA program at McNeese State University and serves as editor of The McNeese Review.