Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Two Issue Two
The Blackberry Hedge in AutumnHere the birds come to twitter
about what’s left after the harvest moon
grows orange and swollen, so heavy
it finally falls from the sky.
I hear your argument again.
You’ll be the slow suicide,
eat yourself to death with sugar.
No better way to go,
the birds say, with a sound
that plays like joy on a day so dank
it’s good it will end early, finish
with a glimpse of sun yellow as the last plum tomato
left to ripen inside a tire rim.
It’s a thick thing to be left behind,
the birds sing. Better late than never.
I hear their platitudes
blend with chimes someone has set
outside a window
to catch breezes off the lake.
Whatever metal’s left in me
has gone soft. Here the birds
lose a major scale
and find it plaited to the minors.
There’s nothing left to resolve, only
the laggard pace of fall, stale leaves
rotting in a ditch.
Poplar, birch, oak, cherry.
What difference does it make?
The songbird orchestra tunes,
checks one reed against another,
ostracizes a gull the color of lake water.
One more pedestrian idea gone to seed.
That I could save you from
your own appetites?
The blackberries picked over, shrunken,
bitter, too far gone to matter.