As illness makes us live hour by hour,
revising our day as we go.
As winter plants a great snowy
foot in our path.
As glass baffles the fly.
How rosy can you be
without money?
As war when it comes. If it comes.
A boarding pass for a defunct airline
found in the lining of an empty purse.
Garbage blown up against
a wire fence—held there by wind.
The fence itself.
The slippery skin
between layers of an onion.
Is it the sort of day
to ask a hard question?
This isn’t the right time.
Suddenly the line goes dead.
We are without a map.
This appeared in the October 2012 issue.
Robyn Sarah will publish a new collection, My Shoes Are Killing Me, in April.
