November 2022

November 2022

The girl tried to keep a secret, about the vultures in town. About the poem she started writing: about the person (we didn’t know) who wouldn’t make it to the warm months again. They started circling before All Saints Day. They passed me on their way into town, following the river to the center of the coming grief.

When we learn (what we didn’t know), the girl tries to keep it a secret. But she wants to say his name. And I already knew. I saw the birds pass. So she sits on my stairs and we whisper it to each other, back and forth, kicking up with our quiet words, dust older than the child that left us.

And then comfort comes, like the plague—passed person to person, each meaning well. And then the plague bearer comes, burrowing in through my unkept corners, where the brick has started to give way. They make a feast of the spice drawer, of the coffee can, of the birdseed in the cupboard.

They think very seriously about staying. About making me their new home. They settle in to a small room, an unused drawer by the water heater. Wrap their long tail in an old rag, wind a large snake skin into cozy nest.

But the girl is afraid, and we all suffer for it. The girl isn’t sleeping, so we all stay awake. The girl won’t eat, won’t share a table with our new guest, won’t stay her judgment when she decides on punishment: death or eviction.

And we all know what happens (we all saw the vultures).

So it is me and the girl again. Alone. The others come and feast and go. She eats the oranges, I keep the peels.

Even the leaves have left us,

the apple house