- 58 -

As Robins Do 
Shannon Couch

I found you, in the violet heart of  summer, 
rust    and     scoria.
With handfuls of  earth and amber,
we made a home, coated in August
and drenched in a fever
called the fear of  something new.

As the robin eats the screen and builds a 
nest on the pane,
I watch you watch me watch the sun rise 
in the east,
and you smile as if  you're seeing
light for the    first     time.

At night, you pretend to cry so I'll
hold your hand when    pazuzu
crawls in bed with you,
watching me watching you watch the sun
drag the color from the sky —
I'll   never   see   you   again.

The robin left in December,
the natural fear of  being   frozen   in place—
flew south or west or
as far from me as it could get.
My precious home of  amber,
now      dust.

But dust must settle somewhere,
so I followed where it blew—



- 59 -

seen as guilty, desperate hands of  a fool 
led over roots, yelling   slow   down,
until I fell upon a mountain
called something to return to.

And on its face was a shade of  blue
that took the place of  you.
A home at the foot of  mountain majesty,
and now I'm    lost    in a hue
that holds me
tighter than the tug of  Jupiter.