Chris Roberts

Chris Roberts2Chris Roberts is a first generation American, kind of. He grew up in rural Pennsylvania, where he learned to pronounce his Korean birth name, so that it comes out as “Die Young, Sung.” Candlesticks won’t kill him, although he’ll pause while mulling over whether or not to take the secret passageway to the Conservatory. He lives in Brooklyn, NY. Blue Lyra Review is his debutante ball.


What ever happened to the compass?

Then he agreed it wouldn’t just be them
and that he didn’t want to hear about
her fucking someone else, unless he asked.
Two weeks went by before they met again,
and, in that time, the silence got to him.
He loved and hated her, and didn’t care.
From bed, he listened for the gate to creak.
The more he tried to hear, the more he heard
the flowers missing where they all still were.
The more he saw a blossom on the stem,
the more her words began to blow cold air.
The more he saw a stem, the less she cared.
He dusted off a watering can. It sat
till he forgot he had one anywhere.
The garden’s chances were the sky’s affair.
The curtains wouldn’t close. The sweet voiced birds
were morning joy. Right there, he never looked
to see them pick the sunflowers bone dry.

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