Autumn-Drunk
Now trees, that tree,
part dead, part red, where plums,
who knows when, the seasons exploding
into one another, will form
and then it’ll be
a competition: squirrels v the height
we reach on chairs. And the heart
is not the pit but the hard bite
into the—oh flesh, it’s what lurks inside
when the slant light enters. Yesterday in bed,
all the cracks cracked
open, so later in obedience
class we were like the dog rolled over
to expose his belly. We didn’t kiss but did
the day forget itself
and darken so we could walk through
the crackle of—yes–– Halloween?
The children turned to butterflies
and pandas. Houses lit
with orange welcome. Strange,
the way when everything is
the way we want it, instead of ceasing,
the wanting blazes. Our dog is barking
at a barking dog. Other dogs
barking in return. The neighbors talking
in their private garden. One says Yes, Yes I can
come over, but you sleep now, Mom. The earth
is blooming. Spinning. Lit. Sending forth
her heat. And a man on the radio says,
he gets a shock, his house,
ungrounded, every time he stands
to pee. It’s like that sometimes, right?
Electrifying. Autumn slaps, pushes
its bags of candy, while words of longing
double-dare our mortal mouths. Please,
I don’t want to stop. Once a year,
our hearts contain
what they—what we—cannot.
Bio:
Fay Dillof’s poems have appeared in Field, New Ohio Review, and The Bellevue Literary Review. A recent work-study scholar at Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, and a graduate of the MFA for Writers Program at Warren Wilson, Fay lives in Berkeley CA where she works as a psychotherapist.