Literature
Scourge
leaves shuffled along
from breezes gone bitter,
scatter across a river
blackened
with maternal blood
from my thighs that merge
with the onset of autumn,
and the scourge
of our union
clay soil darkened
with cooking oil, carcasses
and human waste
decomposing
in the dying light
of day, and a life
the way summer
promises,
only to turn away