August (& that tree is no longer barren)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about the fall

Submitted: April 24, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 24, 2013



There is so much to adore, it is late August &

the fig tree has begun to bear its fruit.

I am awake in what I love & desire;


just like the fig, the oaks next to the stream

with tangled watercress—swallowed in

the nibbled wax work of the creek

—the scandal of all its bathing.


The landscape weaves itself delirious

with all of the obsessive play:


through the earth up

to the pinch & pump of stars—

the sun in the sky changing the pulp

of canyonside shadow—lawn membrane thick

in roses—moss crusted between soil & the dark

places it touches—


My mother looks out the window & tears

the fig skin apart with her thumbnail, peels

the fruit from the skin with her teeth.


Puneet rings the door bell to offer a plate

of eggplant & samosas. We share the meal

drinking wine & passing the long tumble of autumn.


The loneliness that is allowed to slip in

& numb the edges of our fingertips.

The loneliness that settles every year

a little deeper in my bones each fall.


He plays old songs we've written

on his guitar, as I collage from

National Geographics. Harvesting the ruins—

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