November's Child

I.

When you spilled out of me,

the trees were shedding reds and gold,

baring their heads before the gods.

They took you from my naked

arms, bending down as autumn limbs

towards dropped, round fruit.

II.

You perfected me, completed form,

not sketched in lines as I am now.

Do you remember me?

Once, you were sound,

and I was breath. Unspoken

forgotten poem, I am half-thought.

III.

Forgive me this love, clichéd

and grasping mother love.

Forgive these desperate hands.

Forgive I do not know your name.

IV.

When darkness drifts upon my bones, splayed out

in semblance of a life, I sometimes shed this loss.

When I’m half awake and restless tossed,

you call for me to wander beneath autumn trees

where you unfold into those reds and gold.

I am soaked and naked Hail Mary

upon my lips. I say your name.

Your lips kiss my shame, and I

bend to you.

© Ami Mattison

For One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday

Photo Courtesy of Cape Cod Cyclist