Maisons à l'Estaque, 1908, by Georges Braque.

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november broke into my room, tore me apart, and lazily put me back.

november tastes of burnt
coffee, a piercing cadet-blue loneliness.
swelling in the chest from a salt-soaked
heart, to live with guilt that doesn't belong
to me, no creak to pour it out. child rage
in a woman's body. unable to crawl
from my skin to shave down
my bones or soak my brain. a hole
burned through my body from blistering
memory of october’s golden leaves
and giggling breeze. cigarette smoke
strolls through like a butterfly in the gardens
of babylon. grief is a tree with no leaves,
a pit of emptiness i never knew.
a mason jar to place love into,
lid tightly squeezed.

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