October stalks the air like a hunter,
like a predator who knows that every year,
his time will come, and his prey will not be ready.
The trees will not be ready,
not any more than the girls under the ground,
tangled in their roots.
The leaves will fall to the floor
of a forest closing ranks around itself,
defiant in the face of this assault upon its secrets.
I won't walk there. I won't stand beside
this hunter month and ask him what he knows.
He won't give me the bodies back.
He won't place a crown of horns back upon my head.
I'm left to do the hard work,
to shovel my insides back in with dirty fingers.
To sew myself shut with the thread of my hair.
After that, there's no going back.
Upon a bed of leaves, I dream of the girls beneath me.
So many of us have fallen to the blade of October,
but I have put myself back together for a reason.
I won't go into the ground when he calls me.
His time can only last so long.
I intend to wait him out.

10/01/2013

Author's Note: Inspired by the third anniversary of the disappearance of my cousin, which was a week ago, and by Hannibal, which is one of my favorite tv shows, and, a little, by Angels in America.

Posted on 10/02/2013
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