September by Lois Adams

You might see me paying my fare,
going through the bus terminal every day,
marking lines in the same spots,
like basting stitches to hold the days together.
The world is finer than a thread, and we walk on it thoughtlessly,
not feeling it sway in the high wind.
But we have to set out on journeys, and I like the way
both my sons turned at the foot of the stairs
and waved good-bye with their faces carelessly turned away.
Now their radius is an infinite line–
their sets of house keys lie with legs splayed out
on the stands next to the empty beds.
This is the month when winds blow plants over,
when the park at dusk is suddenly a forest at night,
with whooshed unseen wing beats just over my head.
Young shad are leaving the sheltered inlets in the Hudson River,
swimming into the deep water,
riding currents past the Palisades,
under the bridges, past the ferry docks,
past the shadow of skyscrapers, swimming fast
past the Chelsea piers and the long open stretch of space
where buildings used to be, following the salt,
the tincture of salt, as the water gets heavier and colder,
out to the shoreless open ocean, but
bringing with them deep in their brains
a taste of home.


2 thoughts on “September by Lois Adams

  1. Pingback: The Greenwich Village Literary Review, Spring 2014 Vol. I, No. 1 | The Greenwich Village Literary Review

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