october generously hands me back
my childhood; everything is dying
but i’m too apple-cidered and love-struck
at the sight of orange-afroed trees to
notice. i want to be. the blankets and
the warm legs curled snugly underneath them.
the autumn sunlight is a dancer and
everyone wants to capture her as
she sets the leaves aglow, a soft fire touch:
the fingertips, her rays. everything
is burning, but in the way a crush does.
a middle school one. short. messy. but in
hindsight? necessary to get where we’re
going. be grateful, she says, for the soft
scenic route. for the love that does not shout.
for the home that you and i can become
when everything is dead and the warmth
can only return when it’s remembered,
given hands we craft for it that act like
sunrays. yes. october takes hold of our
chins and she convinces us that the dead
are still here. still beautiful. still glowing.
previously published with Ebony Tomatoes Collective.
Yasmine Bolden (they/them) is a queer Nahilií and Niitsítapi-descended poet, teacher, and researcher who adores the moon from unceded Susquehannock and Piscataway land. They’ve been named a 2023 Best of the Net poet, Southern Esesu Endeavor Inaugural Audre Lorde Fellow, and been nominated twice for the annual Pushcart Prize. Their work has appeared in Perhappened Magazine, Rootwork Journal, and Alocasia, among other publications. Whatever you do, don’t ask them about queering August Wilson’s Gem of the Ocean (they’ll talk until you’re ready to visit the City of Bones yourself).
