Two Separate Septembers
September, for me, is Spring
a southern hemispheric creature
back to front
lying to the mirror
diving into cyclones, not hurricanes
that spin the wrong way
that September the empire of another woman lay
broken and long-deserted at my feet.
I had no idea who she was, but,
she wasn't me.
I did not understand.
I was not a broken creature.
I saw you sing, saw you raise one elegant eyebrow,
saw childhood fears turn to thrills and
September was pressing, not gently,
on the door of Spring.
enough of Winter, enough of that.
enough of all Winter, northern and southern and all its silence,
Tokyo to London to Boston
enough of it all.
the next September
I tried to throw myself in front of oncoming traffic
but I remembered you singing
sat with my back to a paperbark tree
and wept until I forgot my name instead.