Skip to content →


I’m the screen door always smacking open.

Inside my chest, there’s an archaic turntable.

The needle’s been yanked off-kilter

so I spin with the wonky rage of a typhoon.

I’m immune, throwing myself like sleet

into the baby’s ears, across her cheeks.

And then the truck sliding on black ice—less

tonic than bitters; a blunt swig saying I am

flesh. And not new. I’m trying. I try to be

the lighthouse, not the restive searchlight

troubling night’s troughs. Bioluminescent,

I fish-flip through tangled fronds of thought

re-crossing my heart. I’m an aching hinge

always put to use. That tiny whine keeps me

from dreams. It’s my shift. My mind, an

addled craft idling above shoulders, is set

to whisk whomever’s tromping crop-circles

back home to a far-off star; I joke I could

stay, having found my kind. Crumpled,

I wake needing stronger spectacles

for things to take shape. Relentless fog

needling through mesh. Or smoke. I am

that storm whose improbable second front

mounts for another sweep through god-


What have you heard?

What will happen next?

I slam, then slam again in a gust when asked

from Poetry Northwest 10.2 Winter & Spring 2016More by Katrina Roberts from the library

Copyright © Katrina Roberts
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

Published in Katrina Roberts Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.