Saturday, October 6, 2012

A Poem by Sara Blevins

After Twelve Hours at the Shelter
-For Brittiany
Meanwhile, October slinks by
like a cowering hound
who droop-tailed has nothing
left to bray.
I think of you when I
look into the faces of
leaves dressed in red satin
--those shocked females.
They leave their bruised
silhouettes and awkward skins
on the gray concrete too
when it rains.
I think of your face,
motley and desperate
You were fragile that first fall
before I knew you, little hound
With your voice box kicked out.
You were what October dragged
behind it.
I stopped to sit awhile today.
Those leaves, opulent as royalty,
smatter the slick path,
are tramped down by
the rain and the passerby's
and their black umbrellas.
They think leaves were made
to walk on, despite the
sharp cobwebbed veins
crunching dutifully beneath
their feet.
You see, I had almost forgotten
what feet could do to the spindly
bone structure of a leaf (dying)
or a girl (dying) or a woman.
But perhaps this walkway,
halted in late October
with spiny organisms
pressed flat and bleeding
with nothing left to protest
reminds me to walk on.
Their time has come to
return from the beginning.
Walk on and forget what
you can. If you can.
Crouch low, little hound
I'll let you stay hiding. Maybe
broken but nose quivering
ear to the ground,
waiting for the first
shallow breath of December.
Sara Blevins is a graduate of Marshall University and is currently obtaining her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. She is both a feisty writer and a quiet librarian. She is passionate about literary theory, deep conversations and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Additionally, the only thing she loves as much as her writing is her Upward Bound students. Her work has appeared in such literary magazines as Ect, Message in a Bottle, Spilt Milk, The Writer's Block, and The Whistling Fire. She continues to work and learn from Huntington, WV. 

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