Rob MacDonald


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Rob MacDonald


Rob MacDonald

 
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Relative Time


Relative Time


RELATIVE TIME


while the team of surgeons 
was working to save your life
you were enjoying
an anesthetic-induced dream
driving a convertible
through the dunes
at first alone
then with your best friend
riding shotgun
then the backseat full
assorted characters 
from each era of your life
the car transforming itself
into a bullet train
barreling along
in infinite symmetry
in grayscale
and where is the ocean
you should be there
by now

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Screwed / Unscrewed


Screwed / Unscrewed


SCREWED / UNSCREWED

 
When I watch in reverse,
the octopus retreats 
into the jar, 
retrieves the red lid 
and screws it on.
Unimpressed, two arms
reach into the tank
and undo the achievement 
with ease. 
Millions of years 
of devolution follow,
and I’m curious
to see how it ends,
but I’ve got papers
to grade
and a battery
that’s barely alive.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Flight Feathers, Vestigial


Flight Feathers, Vestigial


FLIGHT FEATHERS, VESTIGIAL


In the midst of the argument,
she called me a snowy egret,
so that was that.
I’m not above studying myself
in the bathroom mirror,
conceding the occasional
pale spot in the beard,
a particularly headstrong
case of weekend bedhead,
a certain angularity of opinion
and a tendency to stare
into horizons during conversation,
into updrafts, Caribbean
blue arcs, into the sounds
of long vowels, salamanders.
She said she said asshole,
not snowy egret,
so that was that.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

BIO


BIO


 

Rob MacDonald lives in Boston and is the editor of Sixth Finch. His poems can be found in Gulf Coast, Octopus, Sink Review, iO, Birdfeast, H_NGM_N and other journals. He has books forthcoming from Rye House Press and Racing Form Press.