two years’ worth of autumn leaves have buried
the love we shared in a shallow, roadside grave.
I knew from the start that I’d leave, and you’d
let me without protest, that the first and final
frost would come early; the last roses of summer
turning their faces away from the sun in shame.
two years later, summer has wasted on the vine;
many creatures came to drink as the windfalls
turned to wine. I wanted to believe you to be
flightless, but your wings filled up the room.
migratory birds fled to warmer climes, geese
honked their way down the shore; gulls called
out and even the sun knew something I didn’t;
it was October and I stood on the verge of losing
you. that fall was endless. now I remember
you like a rose – the thorns still draw blood long
after the petals have all fallen. that is how
I remember you; your celestial body spinning,
spiraling away from me, on a collision course
with an eternity that no longer transited mine.
still life with roses by Caitlin Cacciatore | Poetry Reed Diffuser
Caitlin Cacciatore (she/her/hers) is a poet and essayist based on the outskirts of New York City. She believes that literature has the power to change minds and start movements. Her poetry has appeared in Bacopa Literary Review, Aôthen Magazine, and The Good Life Review. Her epistolary essay was recently featured in the Letters to Our Children Anthology. Cacciatore has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and “still life with roses” was nominated by Sunlight Press for a Best of the Net anthology award.
