by Lisa Marie Brodsky
Its Autumn again and so the melancholiacs
are at work tearing the complexions
from the leaves.
This is the season of touring MacNeals children ward
with the Halloween faces I made in occupational
And my Beloit College that acted
as psych ward or everything that leads up
to a psych ward
I rode my bike over the river to therapy,
the leaves chronicling that year,
each color a rosette, ribbons of blush
whipping out from my bicycle wheels.
Even in hell the seasons change.
The chapel bells rang, I could
hear them from my dorm window.
The oak outside my room
embraced my skeletal frame,
my bipolar roommate and I slept
Snow was some kind of barren relief.
I saw proof of my existence
in the footprints
and before me.
Posted on 10/19/2006
Copyright © 2021 Lisa Marie Brodsky