Poetry by Nina Belen Robins

      Thomas Hawk CC



Jesus

The therapist sits
across from me
crossed legs,
dimples,
frosted brown hair.

He sits there after telling me
a poem about Jesus as a scenario for therapy
in which HE is Jesus,
we’re walking along the beach.
His footprints don’t show,
but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me.

This is our second session.

You know, some would say
God wants you to have bipolar children.
How does your father feel?
He has depression.
Those are his genes.
Surely this decision hurts him.

My father says bipolar people
are talented so people want to fuck us
and that’s why we still exist.

Jesus is silent.
The clock on the wall
reads that the session is over.

Another egg jumps off the ledge
where the tubes used to be,

absorbed by the time I’ve left the building.




McDonald’s

The meds told me
I needed 20 chicken nuggets
so I got a few dollars
together and walked
to McDonald's.

Here in NYC it’s open
all night
so I stand in line
with the strung outs
and the other kids.

Mom says it’s fine
when I walk around
in the middle of the night.
I’m 250 pounds
so no one’ll bother me.

The cop over at the table
is trying to coax
a lady out of her pile
of runs on the seat
and all 12 of us start to watch.

Go home he says
but her face falls further
into her hamburger,
brown spilling onto the seat.

Three people leave
and the cop continues.
You can’t be here,
where do you live?

She nods into her Coke.
The spill seeping into her
holed up sneakers.

I grab my nuggets and walk home.
Lithium makes you care more
about the hunger pangs
than the environment.

In the morning
a couple sits
at the shit-table
inhaling coffee
and processed egg.

The cop back in his routine,
the rest asleep.
A scene a
memory only for a dozen.

A bleached table
silently hiding
a spill.




Church Steps

The woman who lives on the church
steps waves hi to us every morning
while we walk to kindergarten
so we always wave back.

Wild red curly hair,
pink cheeks,
red blanket
draped across a bit of cardboard.

Our school costs
as much as college
if you see the bill.

But we wave.

In 9th grade on vacations,
I pack bags for the homeless
with stale bagels and boxed juice,
hang out with them during lunch.

The summer before junior year
I work at the local food pantry.

I barely graduate.

Five years later
I’m living in a halfway house.
It’s time for Christmas donations.
Someone leaves a winter coat,

it fits.

Five years later
I’m living one step up from a homeless shelter.
I run out of money so I raid the pantry.
Meal worms turn to moths.
Then. Bedbugs. Everywhere.
Because half of us are from
jail or the shelter.

At thanksgiving
volunteers serve us donated turkey.

The red head on the
church steps dies of exposure.

The kids from the high school
across the street wave hello.

I smile,
Wave back.




Pants Man

On Broadway
by Urban Outfitters
the grey haired homeless man’s
pants are by his ankles
in the crosswalk,
so we try to avoid
the taxis
turning the curve,
but moreso
this man’s rear end,

round
and visible
as he is half bent
and leaning toward
the buildings
and the whole crowd
hurries past,
heaving at the sight.

Across the street are
three girls
smoking
by the entrance
with their straightened hair,
designer sunglasses,
5 dollar
coffees they got
three blocks prior.

Rocking those new pants
they sell,
the ones with the price tags
charging you for holes,
and not material.

The ones that let your butt cheeks
peer out from underneath the belt loops.

We barely notice,
while the men cross over
to the shadow splayed
out beneath the building.

Drool
at the sight.




Puddle

He is leaving. The apartment is empty
except the air mattress.

I still love you he says.
We could be fated.

We could be When Harry Met Sally
in 5 years.

You’ll be ready for children, then.
You keep getting better.

There’s a house in Missouri waiting for you.
Two dogs, eventually our children.

We can give them a paper route.
They’ll play soccer.

The air mattress keeps deflating.
I can feel the floor beneath my back.

I don’t want children.
I don’t want dogs.

Our future is a painting in a museum
only one of us is in.

Sunrise.  He drives off. His future son and daughter safely buckled in the back seat.

I am an empty womb, left on the floor.
no husband, no children, no house and no dogs.

The sun beats down and all the mothers
begin to emerge.

Open their jaws.
Feast on my carcass.

​

Bio: Nina Belen Robins is a three time national slam poet and author of the books of poems “Supermarket Diaries” and “A Bed With My Name on it”. She lives with her husband and cats and works in the bakery department of a supermarket. She spent much of her life in various institutions but has finally broken free and wants to normalize and destigmatize mental illness as best she can.

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