Poetry by Ruth Robertson
My father’s mother died and left him.
My father’s father hurt him.
He did both to me, but softer, softer;
Quieter ways of leaving,
Quieter ways of hurting.
And my voice is smaller than the echo
That tears through all his empty places.
And he is too transfixed by his own reflection
To realize that he’s holding up pane of glass;
That I am on the other side
Waiting for him to turn into flowers.
Ruth was born and raised Mormon in Salt Lake City, UT but her feminism, queerness, and curiosity spurred her to leave her hometown and resettle where everything is lush and growing. She studied linguistics and is currently studying book publishing. This gay triple water sign enjoys roller derby, reading everything, her cat, thrifting, and daydreaming. Healing from trauma, personal growth, and social justice are important to her.