smoke

In the Bois de Boulogne, Vincent van Gogh

this is the time of transition, of reflection, of decay and death,

of summer trying to hold onto the days while the mornings and

evenings already belong to fall. the crickets are in their mourning

phase, calling out to their ancestors to make way. through the sharp

air, sharper skies: the cries of migrating geese, the ramping up of

falling leaves, the putting on of sweatshirts, the long sleeves re-

assuring, rubbing up against my skin like realization, my cold hands

and cold feet waking me, keeping me ticking above the lull of heat—

i relish the shivering. everything is becoming thicker, heavier; every-

thing is taking on more meaning, forcing me to burrow down into it,

into my self, into these sacred days numbered before winter sets in.

october is my favorite month. i will not let my father’s death detract

from her; she becomes an aching bittersweet that i roll between my

fingers, hold between my teeth, suck down to her last acrid nub.


Art: In the Bois de Boulogne, Vincent van Gogh

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