November

Last week I found the dog’s tan corpse,
fragile, disregarded as the cicada’s shell.
The backyard was burnt dry. Rainclouds
and their kinetic monotony; ugly geese
struggling high till their lazy letter breaks;
thick tides rolling black like tar. I know
October’s over. The angel on my
shoulder falls to death in front of me.
Wild leaves loosen in their saddest song.
The teeth born in my chest sink deeper.
Shorter days mean longer nights, boulder
-heavy, never bright. I will wait in my way:
fold the laundry, water the orchid. Free
the boy I love so he may never be. I will
wait for a bright moon to bleed into my
palms, and shrivel as gunpowder. What is it
to be free? Then I’ll know. I will know then.

____
Layla S. lives in Florida.