It’s fall again, you’re moving out. Again,
the leaves will fall. You’re crunching through them
with your two feet. Again, the trees go bare.
Again, it’s pumpkins, apples, hayrides, you’re walking out the door.
You don’t go easily, willingly, fine. You fight,
you clapperclaw. Down the hall, the stairs,
the walls of the bedroom you two’ve shared, your talons
rip, they tear, they pull drywall to shreds behind. Out the door
to the streets below, Manhattan awaits your carcass. To swallow,
take in, absolve, accept what’s left of what used to be you. The city
will inhale your fight inside and, again, we’ll resume as before. Once more.
Here we are, fall again. And again, to these vices
I fall. You’ve taken your jealousy
like an obstacle miles from me, and I’m scrambling to build
back the wall. I’m free to love, free to be,
free to enter back in to this union, this was and never was.
Though I hated, I scorned, I wished jealousy viciously away–
again in this fall, I’m seeking the protection, the direction,
the obstruction your jealousy once offered my disobedient heart.
It’s fall again, and you’ve moved out.