Jehane Markham

Monthly poem - November 2020

I AM NOVEMBER

I am November:
ghosts at my shoulder
on my bare branches
love falls off
like leaves to make a rich bed
in the quiet of the forest where animals
are listening.
I am November:
The eleventh hour -
still I want the touch of cloth
against my cheek
to tug a fellow’s hair
to cast my spell
to ride with a host of angels
into heaven out of hell.
Let me feel the love I ever had
from all the living and dead
who picked me up
and put me down
and carried me to bed.
I am November:
counting my symptoms
with a restless mind
under my feet the plaited undergrowth
of leaves, roots, fir cones,
ruffs and rings of mushrooms and
fungi kissing tree trunks with pale lips.
Conkers shining like mahogany
in broken casements
green prickles in wet grass.
I am November:
see the groove dug along my forehead
and the puckers above my top lip
whose line he used to love
let me gather my gold
and shine my buttons and buckles;
the desire to hold onto a man
remains a stubborn blind
but blessed be all those who catch me in their eyes
and hold me somewhere in their mind.