Robin Gow
familial consciousness
we all wanted to be a son. took our faces down to the grotto where pale eyeless fish tell fortunes. anything can be a father if it is far enough away. something to be pointed to. that over there is where all my sadness came from. to be masculine is to be constantly addressing a lack of daffodils. but, just to be clear sew me with any flower you can find-i’m sick of the cement & the sorry sorry sorry. this poem is already too serious. i’m trying to say i need to be beautiful as soon as i can muster it. i have been trying to focus on poems that tell the truth. everyone was ten years old & cursed with a zoo in the heart. little beautiful cages. also ten, while making jello i dyed my fingers red to the knuckle. we brought forth wavering little planets. i cry less easily than ever before. tried to wash the red out but it persisted. looked like i stuck my fingers into a family machine. now it takes a lot to make me weep so instead 35
