Prayer to My Seasonal Depression

Lord of autumn leaves,
draped on a tree like lights
or snow, or any number of temporary things.

God of pickled beets, red as the roof of my mouth. Oh you
spirit who dwells in anything red,
here is my breast, dry.

It’s not regular
to want something blotted out.

Leave me alone, shut the door. I want to sit here
on the floor, grow gills—
And when I sleep, my eyes
can stay open.

Today, when I was driving, I thought the blue sky and the gold
flowers in the dusk looked like some old drawing-room, some Victorian
indoor space. And then—
I felt less alive.

What does that mean? Everyone says it.
Less alive.

God of trees, Lord of beets.
Juice me like an apple, skin on.
Throw me into a basin of water and see
if I breathe.

If my arms and legs pull up into my body,
like retracted antennae. If I skid along the surface
like a stone.

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Sara Moore Wagner lives in West Chester, OH, with her husband and three small children. She is the recipient of a 2019 Sustainable Arts Foundation award, and the author of the chapbook, Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals including Waxwing, The Cincinnati Review, Tar River Poetry, Harpur Palate, Western Humanities Review, and Nimrod, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Award. Find her at www.saramoorewagner.com.