We lie under chestnut trees to feel the crunch
Of red and gold. The leaves’ last sighs pile high
And can’t be teased from messy hair. We fight,
Throw fist-fulls that float off, then launch
From the first branch with squeeze-tight hands. A pair
Of pirate-divers search for forest pearls
In urchin shells: hidden in moss, in fern furled
Tight, stems droopy from the frost. The games and dares
End. Maturity calls from the back door.
I go up the steps with you tucked in my coat
And the flames of a sunk-sun October
Behind us. We can’t return. You can’t go out:
I prop you on the window ledge so you can see
The squirrels play under the chestnut trees.
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Published by alyssiaonline
Alyssia MacAlister is a writer, editor, artist and mother, who lives with her partner in Brighton. On both page and stage, Alyssia is concerned with exploring narratives with a poetic frame, finding the beautiful in the strange. In writing she can find unspoken traumas and the meanings behind silences. Wide-ranging past interests include virtual reality and the female body, spiders and grief. Alyssia’s specialty is prose poetry, but she often works in found poetry and experiments with more traditional verse. In addition, Alyssia writes lucid fiction and essays, while also creating artwork mostly in pencil. She also has a scalpel eye for editing any kind of poetry or prose and can produce poetry workshops.
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