Lynn Patmalnee

Our Fall

Fall doesn’t bloom; it bursts, a Molotov
cocktail hurled thorough summer’s window.


Our world explodes in orange, yellow, red,
and leaves us wrapped in sweaters shivering,
not like before when sweat was all we wore.


We wait until the harvest moon to part,
each wondering where green goes when it leaves,


why flaming death somehow smells delicious:
steak in pan, fish in skillet, roasted pig,
skin brown and crackling like autumn leaves,


illicit eyes, the thudding fruit of lust
seductive yet unsweet, the rotting flesh


left balled and chained to earth with pumpkin vines,
the smell of burning leaves our devil’s breath.

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