In autumn, I never know you, closed
for the purpose of thinning
the herd. Polite way of saying Murder.
As if a forest can be closed. As if we
of all animals could decide the measure
of excess. I consider slipping in,
but it’s unclear what men with guns
might mistake for a deer.
When I return in December, it’s like
time travel. A whole part of you
reaped: Fall reds, spiderwebs, scuttle
of squirrels gleaning for winter. Tangle
of leaf and light at equinox, spirits
breaching Samhain’s veil.
In autumn, I grieve your pine stands,
beeches’ faded honey, ancient
play of moss and fern. I miss you
the way I miss my sister,
the way I miss my father.
Before I was his green
beloved. His most
tender prey.
Morrow Dowdle is the author of the chapbook Hardly (Bottlecap Press, 2024) and has poetry forthcoming in New York Quarterly, Rattle, and I-70 Review. They have been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and were a finalist for the 2024 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize. They work as a creative consultant for NC Public Art and run a performance series called “Weave & Spin” which features BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ voices. They are an MFA candidate at Pacific University and live in Durham, NC. Find out more on Instagram @morrowdowdle.