Peter LaBerge

ANDROMEDA

6:15 a.m. | Hudson River

Far off—but still visible to the naked eye—lament is
            a robin on fire. A robin on fire

is one way to describe this sunrise, a tragedy

sparking the sparse city light. In the necrotic sky,
            our god whistles for us

to rise each morning. (When he calls

I still come—muscle memory.) When the robin’s on fire,
            it’s time for god to change the bandage.

God’s been at this awhile, so he knows queer blood

doesn’t clot easily. It’s easier to wait for the day
            to soak clean through the gauze, and by evening

there’s always a line of boys waiting to be drilled

into his body like steel pins, steel pins dissolving
            only once the boys are forgotten and the prayers

thin out—which rarely takes long. The swelling
            never recedes—always more

pins, usually even more than the day
            before, and I never stop noticing—

walking to class, picking up whole milk, filling

my apartment building’s blue wheelbarrow with
            the snowy buckshot of a storm…

no matter how many Lexapro I swallow
            once I return home, whether or not

what’s really above us is more than planes—

commuter private search news pesticide whatever—flying
            in and out of necrotic lips… I’ll lie

awake tonight with why, who leaves
            an outline of sweat in the sheets each time.

PETER LABERGE is the author of the chapbooks Makeshift Cathedral (YesYes) and Hook (Sibling Rivalry). His poetry has received a Pushcart Prize, and appears in AGNI, American Poetry Review, Best New Poets, Kenyon Review, New England Review, Pleiades, and Tin House. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Adroit Journal and received his MFA from New York University, where he served as the Writers in the Public Schools Fellow.