June's Lament

A month ago it was summer.

But now it's fall and
you're gone.
Your stains
will not bleach out of my sheets.

This morning
the horizon of pines
stitches together night and day.

In the chicken wire garden
beyond our bedroom window,
black-eyed bucks and jays
undo
each seam
of berries,
each knot of pumpkins.

Everything
is eventually carnivorous.
Desire turns allergic
to itself.

I've changed
my hair color three times,
but still
the lightening sky reminds
me of the underside
of your wrist
where I used to rest my cheek.

Your scent of
sweet
and rotting
fruit shadows
me from room to room.

Each winter promises to be gone
for good;
each love swears
to be the last;

And every man
eventually
becomes a stranger.

— Christine Hamm