Liz Robbins
The Good and Terrible Stars

On a night, strong, like the bright scent of lemon: how wrong-headed
my obsessions, the need to be alone.

And how utterly necessary, otherwise, why live in a divided country?

I’m the detective and the thief: pulling in people, then hoarding space.

Standing, squinting at the distance: how much to acquiesce? To defend?

Standing in a burning field that’s also a tiny room. Even explaining
the conflict’s a rabbit trap, an ungrateful alibi.

Everyone’s tired, in different ways.

Everyone, driving in loops.

On a night, you might find yourself outside, away from the brightly-lit
party for a time. Inside, a door

about to shut. What clears your brittle path: looking back to the group,
or up?