When I’m about to move, days
are all anticipation, turned wrist to open
watch face, counting bells
of the church down the block, and the night is lovely
only because I sleep and do not measure time.
My last summer at home I counted everything--
mornings, toothbrushes by the sink, house flies.
When a fly landed on the screen, I’d shut
the window and watch the struggle, tallying up
the number of times the fly crashed into the glass,
a hollow thump like the lingering echo just after the hour.
Did I find comfort in the trapping?
The way that summer I circled the track, measured
distance in strides, each step leading me back
to the wire gate where I started. I told myself I ran
for exercise, for air, for the loneliness
of my open palms--
I think of myself as moving.
I think of myself as moving
into a full night where my hands brim over
but there is nothing to contain.
About the author:
Anina Robb is a poet living in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with
her husband, son, daughter, and cat & dog. She earned her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poems have appeared in numerous
publications, both online and print. In her spare time she likes to run.