AUTUMN AS CARMINE ON A COLLAR
Autumn leaves
a seasonal mark or doesn’t
—on a shirt you gifted me—
as I flutter through
what smells like a field
of unseen flowers,
but is surely not my feelings.
I do not miss the floating
smoke of fiery leaves.
Now distant horn notes
seem to ghost my ears
as hurried puffs of air
randomly rise or fall
before nearly looping
into a cursive name.
Did all these scarlet leaves
peep your cardinal lips
or how a redbird hummed
“history twists as a helix”
while the harmonic minor
of your winged eyeliner
darkened up a dominant chord?
Is there enough medicine
in my glasses for one to see
the eyeliner’s arc
as a basic recipe
on a falling star chart
where a contralto seasons
any broth into a brothel?
And what half blind thing
—if it dreams—doesn’t
mostly dream of falling?
Carmine can’t of course
be the only shade
of autumn leaves turning
like handcuff keys
into a semi-annihilation
of what once might’ve
been a dream of the ego
—and may still be—
until your expression
and my limbs praise
what kink, precisely?
The truth is my nipples
are vestigial, but somehow
still sensitive to rumors
of ruby on fingernails.
Maybe if you had stopped
whistling while pretending
that swiping my burgundy
hoodie didn’t highlight
the lone in cologne,
I could’ve stopped
falling for that one lipstick
on your private playlist
which left me racing
like a Little Red Corvette.
In case of emergency
brake lite—break lights
Given what was reflected
by your oversized glasses
who could have foreseen
that our state bird would be
a cardinal sin?
The collar of memory tries
to walk me like a bulldog
or circles like a bull with horns
lowered and nose flared,
as if all the black bulls
I’ve ever been or was
dogged into being couldn't
find release from their rings—
nose or otherwise—
except in confinement.
What shade of blush
deepens to lace its way
around my neck while
autumn leaves turn softly
as keys in secret drawers
to store a dream of touch—
one I aim to recall daily—
tho not as any gospel
chanted in a church or brothel?
You won’t be back—
all the minor falling leaves
no chance for that,
still I patiently ponder
if augmented chords might’ve
reharmed our major lift.
But no cardinal—or even the jay
which announces a name—
knows how far this suspended fifth
of train whistle must drift
to leave the ruby reign
of your fingers barely circling
this kingdom of skin.
