Poetry from A.R. Robins
On Birds and Bees
The beak, russet lance, awkward
enters the yawning throat
releases the worm.
No love, just old instinct that
dictates two bodies.
The stinger, thin dart, heedless
pushes the sunburned epidermis
injects the venom.
No sense of duty, no real war.
Nothing to count or add together.
A moment between the before and after,
followed by the over and done.
No reason to sing with the sunrise, beak wet with nectar
or hum by the open petals, haunches sticky and gold.
Just a tired answer to an ancient question.
A tenacious itch, a graceless scratch.
A.R. Robins lives with her husband in Missouri while she works on her MA at Southeast Missouri State University. Her fiction and poetry is published or forthcoming in Foliate Oak, Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The Swamp, Edify Fiction, The Cape Rock, and Gyroscope Review. Her work has also been featured on the podcast Second Hand Stories.