October by Jennifer Trainor Let’s not speak of despair that hangs like smoke, low over a poker table. Tell me about the trees in Prospect Park, whether they’ve turned, whether Café Paulette still serves moules marinieres and if that East Side building costumed each floor as a circle of Dante’s Hell. With luck, we’ll laugh. I’ll tell you about a fine mist off the Pacific, the rhythm of wind in sycamore branches. I won’t mention Gaza’s tunnels or Magit in Tel Aviv, the tiger mosquito or the aquifer of your heartbreak. The randomness that overturns our lives. Our search for the glow of that one small ingot. Copyright 2023 by Jennifer Trainor
Jennifer Trainor is a winegrape grower and lives on a small vineyard in Napa Valley. She was born and raised in San Francisco. Her poems have appeared in Volume and Sonora Review.
