Robert Mata

Here’s a draft of a poem I’ve been working on. It’s called June.

Year after year you weigh heavy on me,
your hanging branches overripe
with black raspberries. Like a fawn unsteady

on its feet, I stagger to make it
past these 30 days and nights
without collapsing. June,

your temper terrifies me. If I am to devote myself
to this dark and carnivorous universe,
must I do it along with nature’s cruelties—

those inflicted upon me and those I inflict upon others?
I am basically good. I make up no stories yet
I string along words like a spider. I am a child of illusion,

roaming the gloom of the bardo
that seems to hinge upon the summer solstice,
some fatal pendulum.

Will it swing in the direction of death:
towards dog bones buried in the countryside
under pink clover blossoms? Or will it

swing towards life, towards new beginnings
and July’s timely relief? June, decide our fates.
I am helpless under this long summer light.