September Poem 49: The Red Field Guide

Dressing your kill on your knees. The last leaf

Falls. The story ends. Your wood shed. A roofed

Pile that you built. Old pallets, scrap wood,

And an angled flat roof you covered in

Left over scraps of tile. Your cabin.

Warm from your seasoned wood. It had been her

Present to you. Or your present to you.

Your dream. Your refuge from her. From never

Ending shitfits. Angry that you cooked your

Own meals. Angry that you invited her

To eat. Angry. And why? Because of your

Mannerisms. Because her father did

Something. Once, before you knew her. Something

Like nothing you had done. Blame without end.