In the autumn, with leaves burning, safety
as children running
embers floating in the air.
And I am burning leaves again.
The tulips i pulled from your garden
how you say me hiding,
behind our pine.
Eyes wide.
Knowing that you were one person.
And about to become another.
How. You. Yelled.
And how it tore into me,
a torpedo, dropped bomb,
burrowing.
When I got into trouble again
I went into a house.
The neighbor with the old fan.
Brass cage.
Thick, cracked rubber blades.
Heavy.
Fissured dark,
Rocking back and forth on their axis
in the wind
in the window,
Back and forth.
Wishing they would rock into life,
That your will would gain power.
Still wishing.
It’s a false false,
after the fan
and the pine trees.
The hips thrusting.
Now they’re just hanging there,
fan blades,
setting sun in a window frame.
The house is set back,
in the pines.
Writer Moe 