National Poetry Month : Ben Robinson,

Glass, Darkly

 

Morning light stretches the houseplants
along the living room wall. I show the baby
and he just stares at my outstretched finger
gesturing like some St. John – not a headless
Caravaggio but da Vinci’s serene baptizer,
tucked in shadow, index raised to heaven.

☛

Out in the yard, he bathes in a rubbermaid
tub. I pour water from a plastic bowl
and he closes his fingers around the crystal
strand, sends it spraying out in all directions.

☛

One of the earliest English Bibles was filled
with printer’s fists pointing the way
to godly annotations in the back.
At the last minute though, the king
changed his mind and ordered
the annotations removed, leaving the final
version strewn with severed hands
pointing nowhere in particular.

☛

Standing in front of the mirror in the hallway,
the baby reaches out for his reflection,
swatting at it again and again,
tiny fingers grasping, leaving
streaks across both our faces.

 

  

Ben Robinson is a poet, musician and librarian. His most recent chapbook is Without Form from The Blasted Tree. He has only ever lived in Hamilton, Ontario on the traditional territories of the Erie, Neutral, Huron-Wendat, Haudenosaunee and Mississaugas. You can find him online at benrobinson.work.