November Tallies

Straw and dead root hair gave up the zinnia ghosts’ grip on the dirt so easily after that frost.  Manila tombs labeled with our late professional addresses could hold whatsoever colored promises, each shredded skin nimbus, a dead head. What came home finally to me that night by the dregs of a votive candle’s light would have to be exhumed by tools now stored away in cellar cobwebs behind the bicycles, lawn chairs, iron rakes, and grass whip.

So the next morning it all drove me to the monastery, where I helped the nuns peeling and coring Arkansas Black apples for the seasonal pies, where I could join them cutting and gouging out the few bad places, talking of our friends who since the last election had been threatened or excluded from local Dollar Stores.