May 2021
Bio Note: As this month's submission will show, I have both change and the past on my mind at this
liminal time, when it feels as though we are jointly crossing over from one age to another, from the world of
plague to a new way of being in the world. During the time of shelter, I have devoted myself to writing, working
with others in the poetry community, growing deeper roots. I hope I will continue to do this once I can also turn
outward into the world beyond my walls.
Celebration with Mirror
To RHW Dillard
When I was twenty, I used to look into the mirror
every day. There wasn’t much I loved—but it
would be a pleasure to look into that mirror now
to see the person I once was. Not knowing yet
I’d never get away from me, I left my home
in Philadelphia for a college far away. Now
I travel only to the past. The first time I didn’t
feel alone was in a workshop on a Wednesday
night, sitting at the far end of the honey-colored
table, where I could watch the others’ animated
faces without them noticing. Sometime that
semester, an ancient lightbulb, Edison’s first
model, big as a lantern, burned out during class—
a pop and fizz, bright as a camera’s flash, a whiff
of sulfur. The surprise of sudden darkness made us
laugh, the big bulb held carefully between
the teacher’s hands, a crystal ball in which
I might have seen the future I inhabit now.
Regret
golden shovel from a line by Brigit Pegeen Kelly
On this night and many others, just as I close my eyes, the
whole past opens out forever like the midnight sky, heart-
dark and deep. Again, it is the night my mother dies
in her sleep, and I am not there to slip the ring of
hammered gold, worn thin, off of her finger. I touch this
bright band, etched with unreadable signs, feeling its heavy sweetness.
After the Plague
It’s time to open up the door, closed and locked
so long the hinges stick and groan, peer outside
into the too-bright sun, hear wild parrots
squawking in the branches, crows gargling
their few harsh notes, unhampered by
the window glass, the walls. But I can’t
let go yet of this long dark year. I want
to welcome everyone I know into my home,
hold them close, feed them home-baked
bread and soup, but won’t, though now
it’s safe to share a breathing space, standing
close enough to throw an arm over another’s
shoulders, singing together under the rising
moon. Instead, I’ll build back slowly
the broken bridge between the world and me.
©2021 Robbi Nester
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the
author (email address above) to tell her or him. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual.
It is very important. -JL