they sing the majesty of the circle, loving mother of life and its blood filmy symmetry, an aphrodisiac to the weeping widow, it sells her thin solace and ounces of sunshine balance, it boasts, when waves of moonlight lap against her door, and sends milky chatters over her teeth when she finds her lover’s eyes in the new growth under her rose bush.
this life of mine, however,has followed the jagged temper of the square, silent little renegade a path of straight vein and baobab trunk, this little life ran
and then, the sudden convulsion of turning the first corner
now, under our leathered skin, under the angel statuettes of our mothers across the sea, these little squares sleep
until on a June day, with air akin to clotted blood, we again turn the corner, shiver, wipe  the red trails of dust dripping from our eyes to the east, and continue to sip this red, white, and blue concoctionwe begged for eight years ago
this little child, if asked, will draw her vaudeville of a life as a profound, little square with eight corners, hung with suitcases and Spanish moss.
— Tayla Robinson
