by Jan Hassmann

Write about autumn, but
not the trees trembling.
Write about the strays born
with the first fog,
pleading why,
why, why this world?
Write about biding.

Write about autumn, but
not the leaves failing.
Write about the mold in
damp corners and the toadstools
rising from lone bodies.
Write about all life.

Write about autumn, but
not the eve glowing.
Write about the stout candles in
early-dusked windows,
ever wistfully steering.
Write about mothers.

Write about autumn, but
not the log fire burning.
Write about the moths and the grief returning,
every fucking year,
through bolted doors and latched shutters.
Write about dust.

Write about autumn, but
not the stew churning.
Write about mum still setting out
three sets of plates
and all the other things she’s forgetting.
Write about bliss.

Jan Hassmann first studied and then taught English Literature at universities far from home. He has recently returned to Europe, where he runs an amicable poetry club in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. Some of his poems have gotten away, and more seem poised to do so.