Slutty Shut-in

Summer was hot and endless. Halloween, people were still wearing shorts and sleeveless shirts. Then again, it’s not the holiday for clothes. You’re either a slutty devil or a slutty angel—no in-between.

But this morning I awoke shivering. The wood floor creaked under my feet like old bones. The furnace whined as I turned the dial on the thermostat to a toasty 75 degrees.

Sudden changes in the weather like this, people get sick. People are already sick…

But I can’t say for certain this transition to fall was so swift. I haven’t left the house much. However, today I decide to sit on the porch with a mug of hot cinnamon tea and a book about finding Christmas romance, because who doesn’t love that sappy stuff this time of year?

When I step outside in my nightie that stops inches above my knees and a silk robe that’s even shorter, a gust of wind immediately hits my face, and the autumn leaves that blanket my yard swirl around me.

I look up at the naked trees as they lend me their clothes, but I tell them, “I’m too dry to be slutty.”

Seasoned

Hello, sweet autumn—
your falling leaves kiss my skin
like cinnamon. Ground

to dust, you sprinkle
all-spiced flavors in my mug;
taste winter brewing.

—Nortina


#MicroPoetryIsBae, so here’s a micro poem in response to Amina’s autumn inspired haiku. Check it out here!

#ThrowbackThursday Poetry: Autumn Lapse

Welcome to another episode of Throwback Thursday, poetry edition. Today’s poem marks something special: a change in seasons. Ah, yes, Fall is just around the corner, literally a day away, and I don’t know about you, but I’m anxious to pull out the knit sweaters, the wool scarfs, the suede boots, and of course indulge on the pumpkin spiced lattes (I don’t care what Martha Stewart says)! What do you love most about Fall? Here’s an autumn inspired love poem to get you in the mood.

Originally published October 21, 2015 for the Write or Die Wednesday challenge.


Autumn Lapse

Love Tanka #5

Sun sets an hour
early; wind pushes east, sends
fallen burgundy
leaves adrift. Wool scarf tightens
around neck; coffee cools in

Styrofoam cup—pumpkin spice.
Pumpkin patch picked; please, contest
winner, spice up this
love with cinnamon kisses.
My Rip Van Winkle slept the

Autumn away; wood
splinters fracture his cheekbones.
Frost-bitten lips, blue
like night’s sky when moon is full,
and I dream he’ll wake in Spring.

—Nortina