by Ross Robbins
You must remain in
your place. All order
is cut from below
at the knees, crumple
I cannot prove
my past
except to say
moments hover in
my mind that
could have been
this morning; flashes:
at four years old
beside a tree. My first
stitches. Tearing wallpaper
and my dad tearing me
out of joy by my arm
growling in my face
past is
melting snow
in a copper pot
to wash a cut