When October Undressed by Elya Braden

her green apples, the moths

crocheted my t-shirts into granny squares.

I braided the commandments clinging

to my mother's belt loops into

a bulging purse of failure.

I tried to file love under "bills to be paid later"

but my lover unwrapped my shaving cream

and I became a toothbrush. Maybe

I'm mace, a mystery without a sacrifice.

I thought we could share a cat, like one

pair of go-go boots for mirror-image

amputees, but he was gunpowder

and I, spectacles in moonlight.

When October rang all her bells,

I jammed my fingers into pencil sharpeners.

The aroma of wood chips stained

my teeth, but they refused to hold

a charge. Am I pointless without him?

When October stole another calendar

from my pages, I traded my candles

for dinosaurs and exiled the lawn.

How many hats equal a party?

He scribbles the answers in pictograms.

I'm fluent in hieroglyphics, but only

on Tuesdays. My gods ride electric bikes

in a cannabis miasma, while his tuck

into smaller and smaller boxes.

Next year, we'll be islands.

When October opened her one

red eye, I loosed my ponies into the sea.

Fire husks bones in its vivacissimo

dance. Helicopters of rain are singing,

but I’ve got no coin. Every loss

a lesson in detachment.

Every traffic jam a prayer.

Love, would you dive

into a pool with me, plant

your hand in melting concrete,

and hail us an Uber to the moon?

___________

Elya Braden is a writer and mixed-media artist living in Ventura County, CA, and is an editor for Gyroscope Review. She is the author of the chapbooks, Open The Fist (2020) and The Sight of Invisible Longing (2023). Her work has been published in Anti-Heroin Chic, Burningword Literary Journal, Sequestrum, The Louisville Review, Thimble, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets. www.elyabraden.com.