This time of year I like the gnarled
little sugar skulls
like dolled-up potatoes,
fingerlings with eyes gouged out,
daisies growing through the sockets,
this time of year always wondering
about that baby I lost,
otherwise don’t look back,
otherwise why think at all?
When my body refused, his presence
didn’t dissipate right away,
never meant any harm,
just trailing after in the ether
and now this ether-light’s shining
and the wind twitches,
I can hear the ropes bite the macadam,
crossing over,
neighbor girls playing Double Dutch,
chanting as they jump
but can’t make out their faces in the glare.
Their ropes strike the ground in rhythm.
When my baby girl was born
sometimes she took it so hard just living,
I crooned don’t come undone now, don’t come undone
the way my grandma used to.
She raised prodigious chickens
out back,
great-breasted matrons
most every one had two yolks
and whenever one of us asked
How’d they do it?
she answered they’re double-souled,
honey.
This time of year, gold lingers
in thin autumn air
ether-light shining
crossing over
ropes beat the ground in rhythm
I can hear their voices
but can’t make out their faces.