Thursday, July 12, 2012

A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein

Go on; enjoy yourself. I'm not returning
home this winter. I don't want to make the mistake
of another year,
Missouri a long way off,
full of superstition, omens, and witch's meat.
I'll miss the ripeness of soil, the grazing river,
wild turkeys, possums in the abandoned car,
the red fox living beneath the house, voles
camped in the hills. Some things need endings
more than others, superstition a heavy master.
Splitting poles, spitting on the broom, Sankofa birds,
pockets hanging inside out near running water,
the fourth floor, a sneeze without a bless you,
how the new year begins at midnight.

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