what summer we held in our hands

we sat roadside with bog peat staining
the seat of your dress and my jeans
to hold the bee’s last breath,
honeycomb wax glued to its wings,
then left our peachy picnic behind:
no stomach for stonefruit
in the face of august death,
just car-ride quiet, my hands
brown in the windshield sun
nervous-seeking the salt spot
at the top of your knotted spine
until we crossed provincial lines
and forgot ourselves, the little bee body
and its weight, pulled over to turn
gas station postcards into broadside poems—

        wish you were[…]BRAVER

        the weather’s been gorg[…]ING ITSELF

—and when we fell asleep that night
in my noctambulant pining i slink
into your dream where you, radiant,
floating around the party with a drink
in your hand, never look my way,
and don’t speak much except
to toast the art we made that said nothing.


Jessica Anne Robinson is a Toronto writer and, more tellingly, a Libra. Her poetry is featured with minola review, West Trade Review, filling station, and Room magazine, among others. Her debut chapbook, OTHER MOTHERS’ FUNERALS, was published with Frog Hollow Press in 2021. You can find her anywhere @hey_jeska.