How can I tell her, my own mother,
that I long for the autumn to turn?
When I first take his seeds upon my tongue
I gag, but soon I swallow them with ease.
The earth swallows me in turn.
The bright world fades, means nothing.
I give it scant thought.
I am your mother.
What else can I do but wait?
Though I gnaw at the branch
of the tree outside my room
which bears no fruit,
until my gums are bleeding.
Will nothing hasten your return
or the tree’s first shoots of green?
I have waited out more winter days
than I care to count.
I wring my hands until the bones grate,
my menses cease with the seasons
and only death to all things
will quell my nerves.
1 November 2012