Autumn Begins in Virginia, Where You Left Me

and every year I still yearn to write them—the leaves,
signature picture of beauty 
and stock as a sunset. 
                                         The truth? I took a screw-
driver to your window, 
                                         almost dropped your AC 
unit two stories to concrete. 
                                                 The herb garden
is dying. 
                The stinkbugs are finding ways inside.
You’re trekking the opposite half of the country
           to trace the azimuth to a future
you can believe in 
                                 and I’m thinking of my ma-
ternal line,
                    the sex-specific cancers I stand 
to inherit:       
My body is not inevitable. I picture 
it in forty years, 
                                      unsexed to survive, 
my hands famishing for the feel my twenty-
something self.
                          You mail me a letter on your best 
                  I stare at the bathroom mirror, 
snap polaroid nudes.
                                   Season of what we have not 
       and what we’re scared to lose.
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