I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground
–Louise Glück, “October (section 1)”
You don’t know the words of the spell that will make
him talk to you again, only know that you’ve either said
too many words or too few or put them in the wrong order
during the wrong moon phase. Something—everything—
is inauspicious, and the vintage fox stole that drapes
your empty birdcage can offer nothing but comfort each
morning as you stroke its soft head before leaving.
You just keep thinking of the ways you could have been
different, but most of those weekends you spent at his
condo in the suburbs you were drinking too much, refilling
your glass again and again from the bottle of vodka in his
fridge, either muting the dread that you didn’t love him or
the certainty that you did. But maybe you were meant
to wash up here alone on your own Circe’s island
where you stand outside your building with the October
wind blowing back your hair and cape, this place
the ending where your spell was leading all along.
Jen Finstrom is both part-time faculty and staff at DePaul University. She was the poetry editor of Eclectica Magazine for 13 years, and recent publications include Red Eft Review and Escape into Life. Her work also appears in Ides: A Collection of Poetry Chapbooks and several other Silver Birch Press anthologies.