September
This is the time of year when stormsspin up from distant dustand sand and make their way to us,and we worry and adjust
the scales we carry in our headsto account for luck and prayer.We buy batteries and candles, cordsand water to prepare.
There are three trees beside the housethat rarely catch my eyeexcept in these days when I measureall things against the sky
or what the sky might bring to us.I worry and adjustthe scales inside my head and wonderwhat to do or if I just
need to know some secret thingsomeone who isn’t mewould certainly know: which way the windwill blow up from the sea,
or how to navigate a seaof worry. I worry my scales—their beams worn as thin by now as the‘venetian blinds’ that whales
have stretched across their mouths in a…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2022