The Haunted Month

For so many years,
September was a bridge
from wrinkled bulbs
of last tomatoes on the vine
to primal layers of frost,
a bridge to foggy Halloween--
children trading chocolate bars,
stuffing their loot in a pillowcase.
Dowry of hope rattled in pockets
in musical ways--now the nickel
is crushed by headlines
on the evening news.
Acid reflux of ash covers
the cheek of a waning moon.
First New York, then land
after land after land.
 
September stays the haunted month.
Apparitions are real,
real as the last letter home
from a soldier in Iraq.
Bones beneath a coffin's lid
scatter like pencils in echoing vaults--
becoming the viscid roots of chaos
ruling every sidewalk's crack.
Tyrants in their busy trances
argue as the bodies fall.
We ache for a calm perch
beside a trustable stream.
Eleven is a jail cell of abject fear
from crawling dawn to dragging dusk.

First Published in The Pittsburg Quarterly

© Copyright, Janet Buck.
All rights reserved.