AUTUMN AS CARMINE ON A COLLAR
Autumn leaves
a seasonal mark or not
—on a shirt you gifted me—
as I flutter through
what smells like a field
of chrysanthemum, yet
favors none of my hungers.
I don’t really miss the floating
smoke of fiery leaves,
but now a distant train’s notes
appear to ghost my ears
as hurried puffs of air
rise, drift or fall
before nearly looping
into your cursive name.
Do all these scarlet leaves
mimic your cardinal lips
when they begin to decree
“librarian is the sexiest word”
and the harmonic minor
of your winged eyeliner
darkens a dominant chord?
I wonder if there’s enough
medicine in my glasses
to peep the i pencil’s arc
as a complex sign
on a falling star chart
where your contralto deepens
every broth into a brothel?
Because 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 an undoing
of what once might’ve
felt like a shell of the self
—and may still—
unless your lowered lashes
and my bent limbs
pray to what ache?
The truth is my nipples
are vestigial, but somehow
still sensitive to rumors
of ruby on fingernails.
Maybe if you had stopped
pouting while pretending
that swiping my burgundy
hoodie didn’t highlight
the lone in cologne,
I could’ve stopped falling
for the one shade of lipstick
on your private playlist
that kept my heart racing
like a Little Red Corvette.
In case of emergency—let me
brake lite/break lights/break lightly
Given what was reflected
in your oversized glasses
could any lens have foreseen
how our state bird
became 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
learn release from their rings—
nose or otherwise—
except by confinement.
What shade of blush
deepens to lace its way
around my neck while
autumn leaves turn softly
as keys to hidden drawers
which store a map of touch
I daily aim to recall—
tho not as any gospel
chanted in a church or brothel?
You likely won’t be back—
all the minor falling leaves
little cushion for that,
yet I still pray that
augmented chords might
reharm our major lift.
But could any cardinal—or even
the jay that begins my name—
divine how long this falling fifth
of train whistle must lift before
leaving a necklace of ruby fingertips
to barely call my collarbone home—
anymore?
