Autumn and my tin can was enough, stray
pebbles from the drive rattling as I rolled
it all ridges and grooves between my knees in
the dog-eared porch-light, the metal growing
cold because we all were.  The dragonflies and
Queen Anne’s lace, all the odd creatures with
misleading names were dropping dead so we
could rise up shivering, feel our own blood.  I
wanted to call them on the other side, could just
see an insect Gargantua with his ear pressed to
the can, extolling the million virtues of an after-
life in which everything had shrunken.  Good for
, I thought; he deserves this.  The sky would
eviscerate the sun, every night a little sooner.

About the author

Suzanne Marie Hopcroft wants very badly to get back to Paris someday soon. She is a PhD student in Comparative Literature at Yale University…

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Issue 13 · September 2011

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