IT WAS OCTOBER
I was love when I entered the bar
shivering in my thin t-shirt and ripped jeans
and I was love when I left that place, tugged along at the wrist
as though tied, with a man I did not know.
I was love there in the morning
when our sour kisses bore the peat of rotten leaves,
fallen October leaves. And it was love that we kissed anyway, not knowing
each other’s names.
I was love in that bed
and I was love in the hall and down the stairs and into the freezing rain.
I was love with hands punched deep
into the pockets of a coat.
I was love coated in frozen rain.
Back home, I was love stripped of the cigarette-stung shirt, love pulling the stiff jeans from my legs.
I dried my hair and I was love.
It was October. What did I know of love that year,
shuddering in my nervous skin. Miles away, the boy was lashed to a fence and shivering.
Where that place turned red and the ground soaked through
with what he was, I was love.
What did I know of love then
but that it wasn’t enough.