A Poem by Sara Blevins

After Twelve Hours at the Shelter

-For Brittiany

 

Meanwhile, October slinks by

like a cowering hound

who droop-tailed has nothing

left to bray.

 

I think of you when I

look into the faces of

leaves dressed in red satin

--those shocked females.

They leave their bruised

silhouettes and awkward skins

on the gray concrete too

when it rains.

 

I think of your face,

motley and desperate

 

You were fragile that first fall

before I knew you, little hound

With your voice box kicked out.

You were what October dragged

behind it.

 

I stopped to sit awhile today.

Those leaves, opulent as royalty,

smatter the slick path,

are tramped down by

the rain and the passerby's

and their black umbrellas.

They think leaves were made

to walk on, despite the

sharp cobwebbed veins

crunching dutifully beneath

their feet.

 

You see, I had almost forgotten

what feet could do to the spindly

bone structure of a leaf (dying)

or a girl (dying) or a woman.

(Dead.)

But perhaps this walkway,

halted in late October

with spiny organisms

pressed flat and bleeding

with nothing left to protest

reminds me to walk on.

Their time has come to

return from the beginning.

Walk on and forget what

you can. If you can.

 

Crouch low, little hound

I'll let you stay hiding. Maybe

broken but nose quivering

ear to the ground,

waiting for the first

shallow breath of December.

 

 

 

 

Sara Blevins is a graduate of Marshall University and is currently obtaining her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. She is both a feisty writer and a quiet librarian. She is passionate about literary theory, deep conversations and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Additionally, the only thing she loves as much as her writing is her Upward Bound students. Her work has appeared in such literary magazines as Ect, Message in a Bottle, Spilt Milk, The Writer's Block, and The Whistling Fire. She continues to work and learn from Huntington, WV.