| Autumn A woman holds an apron full of apples a tired horse leans into the wind wet leaves bend green in the trees and a screaming red Corvette sky Hamlet’s Ophelia Ophelia peeled oranges they always make me cry, she said the white skin is my memories I scrape it off with my fingernails and sprinkle it about my feet these pale, frail specks remind me of his grin and his eyes, those fierce, brave ghosts- I don’t love him, she said I only want to hold his hands and feel the weight of his thoughts and when he walks, I want to ride his shadow and when he talks, I want to memorize his lips touch his face, his feet, his legs, and the back of his neck, where the moon sits like a big, bright star I don’t love him, she screamed Ophelia peeled oranges they always make me cry, she said After the dark If only I could sleep and with sleep to dream of trees and their long shadows whispering and with sleep to dream of seas and their loud voices calling me back to days well spent gathering words like leaves from the wide hip of hills where young women fold darkness into aprons, smiling at the bright faces of children, laughing green spaces between heaven and you. If only I could sleep and with sleep to dream of me holding the open color of your eyes If only I could sleep and with sleep to dream of nothing, nothing but everything you are Death has sound I hear it tick in the fields hurling gusts of Autumn winds, a husky voice of Fall: cold leaves falling on yellow, burnt-tipped lawns I hear it sigh off the waters of the bay where a dock husbands a huddled mass of boats against a gray sky of winter I hear it speak in the streets the sleight-of-hand sound of age the purloined voice of memories withered hands recalling a warm embrace I hear death whisper in my throat the tenuous sound of breathing Contributor: Joseph Faria
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