Such October Pain This Day
by Joanne Lowery

    A ball and socket lives there
    halfway up the body
    at the top of the walking part
    scraping batter in an old bowl.

    The soul can handle that
    even as the harvest withers.
    But on the glory path
    where even poison ivy redeems itself
    in red ascension up the oaks
    and gold ovals synchronize locust
    a stob interrupts the foot
    slushing through leaves.

    That headlong shock shoots
    up the leg and finds its mark.
    This is new, electric
    in its search for the key
    dangling below the heart.
    What hurts turns toward the sun
    where the hickory prays.
    A bit of tar gums up bones,
    the world's on fire,
    and surprise feels staggering.

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