the gods or scientists rock cradles and
burn leaves. I want to carry our harvest in baskets, with apples and salt, over my arm. we need colored strings to tie in our hair; we need ink to draw on our faces. the season is coming, and I want to drink from dirty glasses without caring; chew sugared gum, pink and gritty against my tongue. the season approaches. the wall-art hangs crooked. something near the road smells forgotten,
by accident or omen. glittery items lay strewn on wood floors for me to read like tea leaves,
to puncture our heels when we dance
barefoot to the sound of rattling bones.
October thunders the roof, whistles past window panes,
frames the cold, aches my insides.
some parts of me are older than others. you want to cover me. you want to seal the windows and smoke in the dark so that we become pin-points of burning ash between inhales.
this is not a gentle change. this is not a timely compromise. the season approaches on the backs of hungry birds that crowd the fields and the trees and the sky; we stretch upward, our hair laced with colors, our reception drawn in blue beneath our eyes. we stretch up, grind our heels down and rage to our knees with black feathers tight in our palms.
Leda Muscatello resides in a hide-out farmhouse at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. She has written poetry, short stories and ranty prose for 35 years. When not writing, Leda entertains local farmers and their cows with loudly rendered folk songs, and the occasional jazz number. Her inspirations include cheap red table wine, reoccurring nightmares, the changing of seasons, and thrift store art work.