Anthony Robinson

Argentina
Forty years after the war.

We’ve wasted so much time here, you and I,
that I no longer know where I was born.
If someone asks I tell them it’s a story
better left unsaid--perhaps unmade.
I left traces in the mouths of many
before you darling. Women, children too.
I’ve seen many ends, have lit slim candles,
witnessed love and strength crushed like a flame,
and I’ve seen flame: a still and silent beacon.
Your hair is ashy now but I recall
the way it felt that summer I first saw you.
I was fresh from war, and tired, beaten.
You were the brown daughter of a gaucho.
I still had my boots, my guns, my leather;
and when we kissed, the smell of cow hide
filled my nose. I never knew if it was me or you.
Sometimes now, the smell of flesh returns,
burning sweet like ochre autumn leaves,
or gas, or freshly rendered fat, pressed cleanly
into cakes of soap. When your papery lips
touch mine, I smell the end again and clutch
your body close. How brittle you’ve become!

Anthony Robinson is a full-time career student and Oregon native who misses Southern California. A long time ago, he knew something about gravity and electromagnetic fields. He forgot. His recent work appears on The Alsop Review and in the current issue of Lynx.