September is the best month for dying. Sun’s blade sharpens its point.
Birds stop declaring they want to stay. The smell of rain pervades.
Leaves from old-growth trees leave permanent tattoos on the pavement.
Were I to shoulder my grief into the folds of my favorite sweater,
you would tell me to remember how much you loved me. You insisted.
We were finely stitched, edged in bone and blood. Now my hindsight unravels
its tangled net. A keen knife slices night from day. I remember,
as you could not, your words before you left us for those porous borders.
Remember how you made us learn prayers in ancient Greek?
Syllable by syllable. We clenched our teeth to God. We gave him a name.
Say maker. Say middle distance. Cold shudder in my ear. Sense
could not be made. Autumn unleafing, then, the stinging time of year.
If you get another chance, please name me Moira. For bitter. For fate.
