The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Emily Rose Cole
The battered dead
leaves swirl around the bases of trees and scatter
like dregs against a teacup's curve.
Wind sharpens itself on woodsmoke and moldered leaves.
Cicadas hum summer’s requiem and burrow down.
Frost feathers a quilt across the windowpanes.
Progress rakes shallow wounds through the Indiana ground:
The corn withers. The fields are seeded
with housing developments.
Families light candles.
The air thickens with light and the scent
"Language is useless," she informs me.
"It complicates everything. We need to live
in our bodies instead."
I'd protest, but I'm mesmerized
by the flick of her wrist
as she separates muscle and bone
from the limb of a lamb.
Its juices stain her cutting board,
white pine masquerading mahogany.
She choreographs our dinner,
sweeping and swirling from counter to oven to table,
crafting unspoken sonnets in the curl of a foot,
the swish of a skirt,
teaching me her world
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