by Laura Moulton
I am Autumn for Halloween and in the Light, we paste leaves until the trashbag Is covered. When the light is gone, we climb into Your car and you ask me if I ever Wonder what’s inside you. I think of what it is to gut a pumpkin, Handfulls of wet orange strands, bland Seeds, autumn innards. You needn’t ask, I say. I know then that you are leaving. People won’t know what you are, you Say. They don’t know where I am now, I Tell you. You laugh then, and I bite my lip. I will ache when you are gone. All in all, our Time spent together pasting, Talking of seasons, of Leaves that burn rust into the ground, It is not enough.