That November Rot
Simone Parker
Simone Parker is a poet and collage artist. She is the author of missing e. (Fernwood Press, 2025), a collection of cut up poetry from Tumblr. Her work has appeared in wildscape, Remington Review, The Talking Stick, and bitter melon review, among others. She lives in Minneapolis. She is on Instagram at @singedfingers or online at simoneparkerpoet.com.
Autumn is a mirror—she echoes back moments
that tessellate to form my image in reverse:
wet leaves huddled along the curb, clinging
to the grates of storm drains on your street;
punching in the code to your door, your number into
a hospital phone (the cord shortened of its potential
to become a noose); flameless jack-o’-lanterns
decomposing, deflated faces on the front porch step;
the earthy scent that comes just before
hibernation, so very like your morning breath.
Autumn moves in sync with me, shedding her
foliage as I shed memories of you. On the sidewalk,
among browning leaves, I am leaving the mix CD
you made me, our late night call logs, a worn copy
of your favorite book (still bookmarked with a
hospital bracelet, pausing progress at page 16), and
your hair, unfurled at last from my singed fingers.
It helps me to think the sweet things you said
to me are being raked into the compost
bin. Soon, they will decay.