CHRISTOPHER ROBINSON
Spoilsport
Let it breathe, he says. You have to volatize
the memorites. My brow furrows. It’s my
first time in an
upscale nostalgia bar.
Particles of memory, he says.
To experience the fullness
of the sequence,
you need to let it sit in the open
for
a while, or give it a swirl. Try it now.
My father wedges a dime into the bark
of an evergreen. My first
at-bat
in little-league is moments off. Now swing
your
bat into that dime, he says, over
and over and over. And I do, I thwack
my
aluminum Louisville slugger
against that tree, thwack, thwack, against that dime,
ping, ping, thwack, ping, I swing the bat, searing
the motion into my musculature.
That’s
great, I say. But that wasn’t
my
father.
It was for a moment,
he says. That one goes well
with
a bit of this. It’s pasteurized upstate, then aged
five years in the cellar. Should accentuate
the satisfaction of that practice swing.
Mud slop all over me, the wind, I’m whipping
through it, the football
tucked under my arm,
my legs jackhammering me towards the endzone,
near the swingsets, where Mother
is smoking
next to some man I don’t recognize,
a scrape, a scratch, the lick of hands at my back,
but I can’t be stopped, no one can catch me.
That pairs so well, I
say. Where does it come from,
before it’s pasteurized and aged and all that?
The purest sources age better, he says.
I think you’ll like this next varietal.
Friction of
plastic on asphalt. Stick
swipes puck,
body check, crunch
of wheels, my roller blades
swivel to a stop. I look my enemy
in the eye, then I pick up the puck. It’s mine,
I say, I’m taking it with me. Everyone knows
your
mom’s a slut, he says. And the sky darkens
and a light rain pocks our suburban
street and before
anyone realizes it, we’re old
and lonely, drinking
black coffee, staring
out
the window with the blackest
malice
at children,
at squirrels, at
passing cars,
at anything, and then we’re all dead.
I nearly puke. My God, I say. He takes
a draught, recoils as well. It’s turned, he says.
What happened? I ask. It’s a long and complicated
process, he says. It’s basically controlled
spoilage. You’re dealing with bacteria,
the slow accumulation of mold, of
rot. Any number of things can go wrong.
Blowjob
It was just for one summer,
when I was fifteen. The Director
of the Oak Springs Retirement Community
would pay me in advance
for some resident’s 85th, or even 95th.
Those were a challenge. But I was good.
They’d bring out the cake, some dry,
sugared, store-bought thing, plumed
with dozens of pastel birthday candles,
and as Gerald, or John-Ray, or Betty leaned in
to spray some spittle
from his or her feeble lungs,
I’d
dash in, just behind, blow
every candle out at once, then disappear
before anyone noticed. I never
found it degrading. For them
or me. They got to feel young again, strong.
I
got a little pocket money.
And sometimes, when the back door
had swung closed, I’d creep around
to the window near the rosebushes
and
peek in to see their faces, firm
with blood, their eyes, milky white,
filled with life and its
departure—
a moment that could not be shared
with someone as airy and blithe as I.
Playpen
You can write
suicide notes,
dear john letters, pink slips,
violent manifestos, blasphemies,
you can do all kinds of things with it
and none of it matters,
because none of it’s real.
It doesn’t actually
write.
It’s meant for kids, obviously;
they
see mom holding a pen
and they want one too.
But it can be a great therapeutic tool
for
adults. Watch. I’ll write something with it.
How
about…I’m going to kill
the President of the United States
On July 4th, with an automatic rifle.
Or I could write, Honey, I’ve been fucking
your sister. Dad, I always resented you
for
dying. God, I actually do believe
in you,
but I’m too cowardly
to admit it,
and
it makes me supremely
lonely.
You can say anything. It’s all pretend.
Give it a try. Write about that time
you did something
very, very bad
to someone who loved
you and still does.
BIO
CHRISTOPHER ROBINSON is a writer, teacher and translator currently living in the wind. He earned his MA in poetry from Boston University and his MFA from Hunter College. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Alaska Quarterly Review, Night Train, Kenyon Review, Nimrod, Branch Magazine, Chiron Review, Umbrella Factory, McSweeney’s Online, and elsewhere. He is a recipient of fellowships from the MacDowell Colony, the Sante Fe Art Institute, the Lanesboro Arts Center, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. He has been a finalist for numerous prizes, including the Ruth Lilly Fellowship and the Yale Younger Poets Prize.