grace bedwell
WHAT IT COMES TO / OCTOBER
dear october,
here you are: new, opening bellies with your copper teeth,
putting meat on the ground. turning soil,
bringing death to careful trees.
stand
ing erect like the bones of old lovers, stacked
against the background, predominant in your emotional
display of de construction.
you are laying flat on my broad ribs, telling me
of your loneliness & insomnia &
your long love affair with the spring & still
i am not moved by you, or your monk-robe brown
not like i should be.
instead i am thinking of august
i am thinking of space & time, i am thinking of
being pregnant with the summer months & molding
my self to the ground, i'm thinking about breakfast &
a poem i will write ten years from now
will it be as distant as you?
i am thinking of this poem :
it is not coming easily, i grind it, smell it,
sing to it, plead with it to come
but it sits there, as unmoved as I am.
how could you do this to me, october?
i have been patient
with my hands folded between my knees
waiting for you to undo the silence of summer
so black & white, stagnant & sweaty in the creases of my palms
i've waited for you to grow rotten & fall to the ground and greet me there
but you have not, and i've grown bitter just like the wind
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