Shauna Robertson


There is no word
for nights that reach backwards
and help themselves to half the afternoon,
or for a sea so hungry
it eats its own waves,
or for the pebbles you turn
over and over in your hand,
weighing them against the mind’s grasping.

Shauna Robertson’s poetry chapbook, ‘Blueprints for a Minefield’, has women flirting with Jesus and marrying trees, while one male suitor makes a dessert of himself and another takes mortal risks on a trapeze.

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