The Maynard
Spring 2016

Shaun Robinson


You’re the week’s little finger
like soul night at a metal bar.
A collect call on a tin-can telephone.
A moth’s moonlight complexion, mistaking
patio lanterns for love. I see you dating
a man who keeps his suits zipped into
dry cleaner’s bags as if they wanted
to escape. I see you with a bar across
your eyes in the background of the atrocity.
When the car pulls out of its spot,
the square of dry pavement where
the rain hasn’t fallen but soon will.
Someone once told you you had pretty
eyelashes, but no one before or since
has ever compared you to a butterfly.