Every step of the way was
inaudible, invisible, pulpy

with the flesh of the heart
hidden in fists held
in secret pockets.

A voice under-heard
—wilting, yet resolute.

There were no blossoms.
Just the organ pumping
in the midst
that did not know itself as midst.

——–—Be thou our invader.
——–—The wrong flowering that knows
——–—no flower.

It was that which broke
the bread. It was that which

recognized and
struggled to touch,
to touch them, while
a rime of blood gloved their hands.

 

 

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Elizabeth Robinson’s Vulnerability Index (Northwestern/Curbstone) is a finalist for the Forward Indie and Big Other poetry prizes. Being Modernists Together (Solid Objects) will be out in fall 2026.

 

 

 

Photo by WJ Jongman on Unsplash