In the husk of autumn, we shed our leaves
at the door, your fingers at the hem
of my shirt, mine at the button
of your jeans. And for just a moment,
this isn’t a public park and your lips are at
my neck and you’re warm against the wind.
I know the orioles and wood ducks
on the charts behind me will never mate,
but I imagine wings unsticking
from the plastic, each feathered body
settling somewhere within the walls.
We’ll keep trying, you tell me, we’ll keep trying.
And for just a moment, this isn’t November
and the birds are real and we brought
more than just our failures to scatter
into their tiny, open mouths.
Taylor Hamann Los
Taylor Hamann Los is an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared in Parentheses Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Split Rock Review, among others. She lives with her husband and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos) and Instagram (taylorhlos_poetry) or at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.
Portage Magazine 