Rachel Robles

My Sister, Asylum

There is no safe place. 
Every kiss is a lie—
staining the pavement beneath you—
jostling your bare feet.

There is no place to write your poetry,
so speak it to the air.

Turn your belt into a Crown.
Call her Asylum
Sing her stone monologue:
Bricks of hysteria.

She is your Sister.
She is the one who holds your neck
to stop you from
blowing away in the wind.

She fills your pockets when you are not looking. 
She holds your hands when you are.
She sees the bear who sleeps at the entrance of your room;
el anillo que lleva en el dedo,
Que parece como una bandera para los banditos
So your movement is not readable.

Pour milk into the spaces of construct. 
Call anything, at all times,
and tell yourself
that you don’t have to take comfort in the hurt.

Mandragora     (primer libro)

Tengo un arbolito en mi mano.
Está muerto,
y antigua, y sencilla, 
              pero es mío

No me atrevo
ver la mirada.
Sino ponerlo
encima mi hombro.

Hace una raíz
            en mi
y eso esta podrido. 
Pero     sigo pensando 
            que algun día
            se bebere mi sangre-
del tal manera,
que se puedes ser 

Rachel Robles is A Brooklyn native and longtime resident of Buffalo. She has a degree in psychology and a certification in creative writing from the University at Buffalo. She's currently pursuing her graduate degree in counseling psychology. Rachel is the recipient of the Academy of American poets prize (2017), the Albert Cook, Mac Hammond, John Logan prize, and the Scribblers prize for poetry. Her most recent publications can be found in The Buffalo News, Iconoclast, and in the anthology My Next Heart: New Buffalo Poetry.