November Song

(2003)


November is a month for shutting oneself in.
Darkness fills the window's tide chambers
as tea fills the lonely cup.
I cannot rise, I cannot return.

I have immersed myself in Heathcliff's legend
once again. I should not have traveled
to the purple rose moors, they were rocky
and dangerous with jagged cliffs
I could sink my tender feet into.

I am still there now in a billowing
skirt that reeks of death like a bell,
unable to taste earthly the pleasures
without his land-skin. I cannot rise,
I cannot return.

The horizon is melting fast. It reminds me
of the men who bait the nets, the way
their fingers work fast and slippery.
As if they were fashioning a snare
for their own scaly souls.

What funny children they are,
faces like strips of leather,
eyes little wet hearts lashed repeatedly
by wind, tumultuous weather.

I must do what I can, I must do what I am
given. I can walk dryly obsessed from room
to room to find what I might seek. I can
stare at the tops of my shoes and pretend
they are buttonhole cadavers.

Yesterday I was not aware of the nuances
of men. Today their apparitions wave at me
from the white peace of the porch.

Now I sit heavy in a mourning room
with my chin in my hand, hair bound tight
at the nape of my neck. Finger swollen
and edgy at the cross.

I stare at the world
like women who wept before me.