October blooms into the tiresome red of
the heart of the bougainvillea.
The sun craves for knees, feet, arms, and fists;
in the vein of bloody, fighting, and sacrificial.
Mouth bites at cold, girl awakes: from hands prodding
into breast, each finger a sword, predator sinking into prey.
It is toilsome tact, the premeditated fall of child from cradle,
of innocence to dust.
This is the story of child, to lady, to woman, to corpse,
having never belonged to self, having never dipped tongue
in golden honey to come away sweet.
This is the story of the fire, Roma is burning,
the world widens her eyes in torment.
Rebuild the body thrown into the shadows of the black willow,
the river gurgles in disgust, the earth roles in its stillness,
throw it back in.
Take this: the name, the honor, the glory of man;
and yield to the the filth of word, taunt, gaze, touch.
But imagine this: Girl awakens to rain in the desert,
the flower blooms and is not plucked.
October often sighs into the quietness of life,
nestled in the corners, hiding beneath the debris.
Summer is ending,
the flame is put to rest,
the smallness of hope unfurls.
Girl devours- beast.
Picture by Jordan Bauer (Unsplash)