It is October
sydney vance
and the bathwater still smells of
belated apology, the lack of steam
a mouthing of words. The fever is breaking,
but we are still prowling around
in darkness, pretending to be the animals
we are not. I am still making plans
to be a cat, making plans to find
the perfect costume. I am still asking you
9
to place your body in places
where nature is against me, and you
are still reciting to me
the sounds of waking up alone.
It is October
and the light is rolling into my bed
like a storming of the sun, and I know
that lonely is a cold, quiet thing with no teeth,
and I am still wrapped up
in my own tail, still gooseflesh, still sweat,
still irretrievably out of the bag.