November
written by: Macabea
forgive me, but mary oliver here
are your lush lichens and seeds falling
from branches not in your all-consuming fires
but in greys and browns, cascades
of ash. just as i have began
the shrugging of lethal keepsakes
the days have croaked belly up:
the bees are making their haste home
in shivering clusters, crowds of moths moshing
furiously under the ricochet light––
what’s left for their eternity.
each day in november
i wake up to a dark air folding round me
and decide to quit the board, upturn my cards.
mary, it is eternal sunday, everything
early closed to its chest;
i look up and it’s clear
in the cosmos—low floating and barely lit
as the moon snoozes in the sky’s breast.
Macabea, under alias, is a first year-university student. She has taken up poetry as her primary writing form for some years, and often finds her inspiration at the crux of daybreak in childhood journals. On train commutes she’s always nose deep in Lispector. Macabea is based in London.
