and bird-thin,

I winged it that year
my father died.

Refilling bottle
after bottle, every

thirty pills. My little
yellow swallows.

My heart, all
avian flutter

and whir. True,
I rarely ate or

dreamt of him
but I flew

around flockless
those days. Estranged,

blinking owl, who
could never rest.

Buzzing through rooms
on chick-shallow

breaths. Always panicked
I forgot something.   


One tiny blue oval
pool where I swim

lapse under sunset.
I drink the wool pull.

Riding into liquid.
Questionable gap

in my working history
spans great divides

of self submersion
and buzzing hivemind.

Cerulean waters!
Fuzzy navels!

This is the place
I gulp to lose time.

My Kind

             ~ after Anne Sexton

I know I scare you.
My mouth, murder

crowing. I’m dark
shadow spilling in-

to sunroom. Heavy static
mussing the party

dress poof. My gray
presence, an hanging

overcoat. I am storm-
ing. I am storm-

weather flipping over
the frill of tree leaves.

I strike back. Black
ink in a pointed pen

bleeding the linen
page. Raging belle

sipping bitch tiny
whiskey in tea cup.

About the poems: I find I'm most creative and productive with my poetry, when I am fresh out of the dream state. My best writing comes between 6-10 a.m. I try to religiously honor that sacred, creative time period by freely allowing myself to explore any fragment, oddment, idea, memory, or emotions I am divining. I often wake up after an interesting or disturbing dream in the middle of the night and text myself about it by making free association notes of the dream, then I write of these dreamscapes when I am up in the morning. I love the quiet and the opening of possibility in the morning. I try very hard to give myself several mornings a week to engage this writing process time. They are my finest hours!

The artist's space.

Tammy Robacker

Crow Hollow 19

Murder Four, Spring 2017

Crow Hollow Books