To the End of Fall.
By Christine Aletti.
“Somewhere I imagine inhaling the honey of wood crawling from chimneys that don’t exist in this city.”
Artwork by Mariia Chernyshova.
Clouds straddle your belly. Will the sun ever
crack through your sores? Chilled silver, bruised,
you let leaves die in ochre dresses, rest in chewing-gum
graves in Washington Square Park. Un-responded texts tiptoe
over the dog run, the fountain, digital elegies
begging to be read. Under the arch, teenagers wait
for their first college kiss. May their thin-lipped bumps
last all winter, ignorant of one another’s shapes.
Because of your return, I celebrate sweaters
that endure storage, secrete age in mothball puffs.
Dank chemical smells. But I put on lipstick, go
to the gym. Somewhere I imagine inhaling the honey
of wood crawling from chimneys that don’t exist
in this city. My hair, lonely with sweat,
clings to your cold and doesn’t let go.
The Blood Pudding – November 16, 2020
Christine Aletti has an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Most recently, her work has appeared in the Bookends Review, the Garfield Lake Review, and Crack the Spine. A native New Yorker, she now lives in Colorado with her little dog.