on being born in october

BY MADISON LAZENBY

Is it over yet? I counted

all the purple thistles

in my front yard, gathered

every fallen brown leaf, noted

each cloud that was more gray

than white. There were enough

stripe-sweatered caterpillars

to cloak the entire driveway,

and the sidewalk too

was yawning with years-old fractures

ready to freeze by half-past-three

and cleave deeper fissures

by quarter-to-four. Even the softest songs

sound like shouting in my ears,

burning red now. Leave the whistling

to the wind. The grass has been

yellow for weeks, matted down

like woven placemats by thick socks

inside heavy boots. The migrating

thing—I do not know what it was—

that the neighbor ran over on the corner

of the street with his four-wheel drive

froze to the black asphalt

and has not budged since. I know

all this because I looked, so

am I old enough now

to know everything?

Your lover’s hands, made by spiders

BY MADISON LAZENBY

Trust me, they are only temporary. Those webs will catch dew just as well as any other net. Though warm with a heartbeat and intelligent with intention, they will dissipate at the next rush of wind or a shake of a branch or broom. Just a swat. Be wary of what he is holding—I mean housing, same thing. Notice how dusty they are and what sticks to them. Hold them if you want to, but only to investigate their silk creases and where those threads— I mean tendons—I mean veins connect. Where do they lead back to? Look to the center. That’s all I’ll tell you. Look to the center, see what is trapped there and what feasts.