miriam matzeder

banging the empty all gone or, what i think about when i have afever of one-hundred and three

all i can seem to write
about is
what's tactile and missing
from this ubiquitous autumn;
envy for the
texture of those leaves
propelling themselves
from their safe places in
trees to their certain demise:
the orange, the red,
and he's still in my head.

all i can seem to write
about are
his hands on my legs,
my fuzzy socks on the backs of
his calves,
me, whisper-singing in his ear,
drowning out discontent;
i am the wishbone
spread out below, and
we are sweat and sick-fucking,
banging the empty all gone.