ROBIN
Rain found you crouched in tufts of grass.
If your parents had ever heard you—
on the blacktop, cupped in my hands,
hungry, hungry—they heard you then.
If they had ever come for you those three
nights you kept life
Forgiveness is hard.
False as the hand I gave you, now gloved.
I buried you in the garden, in the hole
I dug to find you worms, with the trowel
I used to quarter them—grotesque tendons—
eyes closed.