November’s Last Week
Elena Lee Johnson
Mangled harmony aches,
makes this season sour, or too salty,
faulty like a pie mismeasured,
untreasured, something just to be got over.
Severed connections leave threads that dangle,
tangle, splay in space like celery strands.
Hands grate a bitter rind.
Skinned flesh smarts against cranberry blood.
It is beyond us, this fractured repast.
Now, fast! Run and see the frost stars in the grass.
Blast of longing stings our eyes,
cries, “O come, O come, O come!”