October

It is the smell of damp I remember,
the way the dead red leaves lie
wet under the dew that has not
yet learned to be frost.
It is the time of loss.
It must be.
The green drains down October’s
chute, leaving the denuded trees
and blackberry brambles ripen
into deep crimson before November
breaks them.
It is October.
It must be.
And we are beyond the edge
of the swingset held in place by my father’s concrete,
the marshy pine grove beyond,
just cold enough for my breath
to come out as vapor.
I do not remember when he opened his pants.
But he must have.
I do not remember when he pulled down his underwear.
But he must have.
I do not remember when he got hard.
But he must have.
And I do not remember when he came.
But he must have.
Because I can remember the viscous
white clumps tangled within his black pubic hair,
and that he told me to watch.
And I remember trust.
There is no fear in these woods.
These woods where my mother saw bears,
where she saw escaped convicts from Thomaston Prison,
where she saw UFOs.
An Augusta girl brought into the woods
of Young Goodman Brown, where religion
no longer holds sway and demons abound.
I am five and I am in these woods,
but I hold none of her fear.
I know I am safe.
I do not remember knowing him,
but I must have.
Because there are no demons in these woods,
not even him.

The Germans call it “torschlusspanik”, and that
wolf has come for me every October since.
It is the fear that time is running out,
that we will never be the dreamers we want,
or the poets, or the rockstars, or the sports heroes,
and when that gate closes we must learn to be happy
with the circumscribed lives that lie within the walled city.
October is when the gate closes, and we must prepare
for the coming dark, knowing we don’t have enough time,
and there will never be enough.
Not ever.
And I watch the leaves shift every October,
fearing my time is up and I must make peace with
the person I am now, because that is all I’ll ever be.
And I hear the grinding of the wooden spool gears and the rust
flakes fall from the gate’s chains as the gangplank rises up,
and it sounds like his zipper coming open.
It must be.