by A.M. Broadous
Two months later and still, nothing is torn
except for everything that matters.
This is true, especially
in November, when the wet,
fermented leaves are not ripped but stolen
by a bitter wind. In the distance, a crow
flies home for dinner. I am not hungry
for anything, much less pot roast.
Remember how you nudged one
onto the linoleum like it was
your birthday and you were entitled?
Your lifespan always was
the cruelest thing about you.
I am too young to feel the weather
in my bones, yet I know the snow
is coming. Your footfalls
won’t ever break ice again, leaving
a trail to where you’ve gone and
where I know you’ll be. Come
spring, though, your ashes will have
settled like pollen. In my mind,
golden flowers will awaken.