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Mama Mada
September is Not the Birth of Things
by Mario n McCread y
September is a stripped trunk of bay laurel,
a valley of rhubarb wands, sky
reflecting the shale rocks
with layered tongues –
quartz clouds breaking through slate.
September is a haul of brambles
rotting on a claw
of branches, pulp of bracken fronds
browning at the edges,
crimson wings of fuchsia –
dripping Chinese lanterns.
September is not the birth of things
though it was the month
she was born in.
The month
when evergreens become
the muscle of the wind’s song.
The month they turn
into a pack of howling dogs –
birth pangs of winter
in the chill dawn.
That September I huddled
in my room – for three long weeks
not another soul came near.
My heart leapt into my mouth
when she slipped out
quiet as a doll.
Then her call rang through me –
collared doves
in the grey September air.
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