October came gold as a dried worm,
sidewalk-fried in the last days of heat. We forgot
how the South could hold summer in its teeth
like a dog who’s caught what he’s been after,
crunching those delicate bones, refusing to drop it.
That month was a minefield of fallen skies
and the simper of streetlamps. We were always
on our way back from something, pulling
into the driveway at dusk. Sitting in the car
to observe our new blue house, the clean lines,
the drying hydrangeas, how the windows
lit from within stank of some rotten spirit
we’d not shake for years.
Originally from Louisiana, Anna Lowe Weber currently lives in Huntsville, Alabama, where she teaches creative writing and composition for the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Florida Review, Blue Mesa Review, and Rattle, among others. She blogs at www.onannasplate.com.
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