feeling nostalgiac, alone

Harlequin Romance

Trees undress in the suspended acorn dust
all over insides spilled with the vested Man's hook;
it seems there's more than one Autumn
happening here.

I'm looking up; the sky it follows hulking winds
that take the breaths of intestine and bile
to heaven; my chin's flicked with red and at least
it's not in my eye.

An affront to hunger; the reek is one last revenge
these animals prank us with, I stare at my father and his
discharged gun, my brow shares friction with wool while I hold
a stomach in my hands

The warmth is like an inside-out cock, empty and whispering,
"This is what you eat," just like my father's latest warning,
"You can put it down." I've rolled in hay and leaves and laundry,
but never guts.

Then the deer's head turned so slightly, to look at me as if he was
drowning in a frosty butcher's masquerade. "You are, you are,"
was how I put it; the deer he understood I think, for then he mouthed
the words, "This is not me."

Nov 2nd 2001