https://www.sonnetscribbler.com/home daily 1.0 2023-02-13 https://www.sonnetscribbler.com/poems daily 0.75 2023-06-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/1622683901955-64LMWOGEASDYKB7THSXO/d-roberts-website-book.jpg Poems - Reassurance 1— My cat startles & I tell her nothing bad is happening, but we both know that’s a lie on a large enough scale. She hears the neighbors’ doors slam, the child in the ceiling crying like an injured mouse. She knows footfalls on the landing lead to the wretched doorbell. Uninvited guests lead to us coaxing her to accept strangers in her home. She knows the rush of sirens down Oak or shouts from the narrow park must mean something in the same way we all know that one thing always leads to another She turns a pale eye towards me as if to say just because it’s not happening to me doesn’t mean it’s not happening. 2— As we wade into the cold mountain lake, my sister promises me nothing’s going to touch your feet—maybe some grass or a fish, but I’ve never seen anything bad here. She shifts the baby to her other hip & walks deeper. Her husband rows away from the widening rings of sunscreen filming the top of the swampy water, oil slick of caution. I know she loves me. Later, I scramble onto the inflatable raft & hold the baby & my breath. My sister stays rooted in the water picking the leeches from between my toes: doesn’t glance down at her own feet—not even once. Her husband saw the signposts on the shore & told no one. He thought they didn’t apply anymore: he’s never noticed anything in the waters. 3— My boss sends a message before an important meeting to ask if I can still lead in light of the news. I reassure him yes, I’m in California—I’m not affected for now. In the crowded room, the men make small talk, but have nothing to say. Painted Bride Quarterly https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/2b31e6be-f900-498c-96b8-bb25d0b2c274/d-roberts-website-pomegranate.jpeg Poems - Persephone waits for her husband The furniture is breathing again, polished with sin and longing. My skin sighs—hungry for your hands—blossoms with brimstone & hellebore. I pluck endless petals, whispering: he loves me, he loves me, he loves me… The blooms don't dare say else. When you collapse into my flower bed, your body flickers—flint & electricity—heart shuddering between my parted lips. You thistle against my soft belly, growing harder. A tumult of vines and viscera breathing death and life into each other: graveyards become gardens, adorned with brambles & bones. Deflowered headstones crumble with cries, coins fall from the eyes of so many sleepless dead as you bury me in your unfathomable wealth. Tangled in sleep, you tiptoe through my dreams. I wind tendrils of ivy around you— grasp at your trespassing ankles. These seasons are seconds: you're gone again. The hallways feel hollow without you and the terror of your dog. All the flowers in my house die for want of you—I gather them in my arms, murmuring secrets in their wilting petals, composing bouquets of rotting love notes. I send garlands across the ghost river, arriving at your feet, weeping to be kept in your world. The stories have it wrong: you never forced me to stay. I collected your jeweled seeds on my tongue. Showed you my devotion before I swallowed you, smiling. Reed Magazine—Issue 155 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/1634263380728-BP4SVLSGS6R1KP17Q2GW/d-roberts-website-shore.jpg Poems - My lover wears a mask to kiss me When she comes home— staring through walls, dropping her gloves and white coat— she sheds selkie scrubs into a pile on the floor. Douses them in alcohol: lights a candle to any god who ever existed— What if they listen this time? Is this flesh enough now? Runs hot tears and soap over all her skin with cracked hands, digs in her nails, until she’s scrubbed newborn pink and screaming at this unfathomable world. I wrap her in a blanket, pet her curls; she kisses my thigh through her mask. Underneath the silence, her breath carries the world outside. I hold mine a little longer— make space for her solemn vespers— hope help arrives soon. The Poeming Pigeon—From Pandemic to Protest https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/e0e8b8fb-f28b-42a8-bc1b-3d99983507a0/d-roberts-website-persephone.jpeg Poems - Ash, discomfort, & regret I love listening to you read. Your tongue carefully picking around words— a heron—legs & beak & sheen of swamps. I want to kiss your lips—taste the strange botanic crush—garden trimmings, long established ivy ripped up by the roots plaster dangling from its tendrils. Architecture crumbling with the weight of accumulated responsibilities. I know you'll taste of ash, discomfort & regret, the faint metallic clang of history repeating itself— church bells pealing backwards in the night— an Unsettling din. Atlanta Review—Fall 2021 https://www.sonnetscribbler.com/publications daily 0.75 2025-05-18 https://www.sonnetscribbler.com/projects daily 0.75 2022-09-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/c908a614-928f-49ad-bbc3-cb4d523e4809/AnatomicalVenusflat_1728x.png https://www.sonnetscribbler.com/performance daily 0.75 2023-02-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/cf4897ac-ad43-403b-83ca-40b25e835af0/danielle-performance-kleos-captured.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/a273c145-5593-4598-976a-e545db7591c6/danielle-roberts-handwriting.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6090d342a90e8422faa91710/0d94bb30-1b4f-4224-a548-3df321d3c7ea/edwardian-ball-2023.jpg