Dickinson and Triumph

If I could find you now—

in the whispered crevices of fallen timbers that surround,

in the stench of spent oil or blackened rubs on knuckles—

I would cry

and not the hollow kind, but full, ruptured,

shaken loose from the vibrations that have sored wasted muscles,

locked joints in arthritic clasp on the trigger for so long that at last

there is only—alone—left

in a mind that remembers your drums, your dead

your prospect tasting of retrospect

and the tyranny—my own—

contrition now of bayonet

Robin Long writes: “I am a writer/poet/educator residing in the Austin, Texas area, and currently, I have poems forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly and 45 Magazine.”