In the roads, like the songs, swords forgive me for spewing them forth, our words.
Still the memories might not entertain. So tight, so tired, at the tip of a tongue that could balance no more blows. It is autumn as autumn is, rainbow menagerie of leaves, grasses and glass moments, windows I banged against, breathed against, on which I wrote another name.
There is a Bon Jon Jovi concert coming up, entitled “when we were beautiful.” How fitting for these days, this road back (home?). I have engaged, upset the time to avoid the temptation of reaching out, touching my house. Still, it is autumn I recall. The sculpted grounds and walks in woods, front porches that could contain nothing, not the need, not the winds.
I did not know the guaze that would grow around autumn’s trees, trap and sadden them by my yellow barn. I did not know to cook, but heated jars and wet my soul with full grape wine. I did not know that one foot forward would take me far across oceans and age, would unleash me from my auburn jungle of limbs. I did not know those knives would look back, lurch back at me, burst forth from my wool cocoons to flutter their fanatical eyes.
Of that autumn, I remember the cold of metal pipes, voices clinking inside of their bones—how I held my ear even there to sight a single truth. How I pursued pinker lips; how the bathtub could not warm me. How wild the weeping was, that no wish could release me—or even jangle my chains.
