Autumn in Prison
By Connie Leung
In memory of John Fowle
these leaves are not from in here
they are nothing like the towering pine
that prickles crevices into my sky with its
decaying and sullen branches
these leaves are robust & hearty still
sneaking their way onto a stage
of concrete like renegade
prima donnas at burlesque
they dance and flicker
bare glimpses of saffron & sepia
blow kisses from lips a tint of rouge
i am certain
no man can recreate
these leaves must be
the ones you saw each day
as you sat close by painting
they huddled together didn’t they
and danced harmoniously
as they fanned rainbows into your sky
i create a story in my mind of how
you must’ve smiled and pressed
those rose-kissed cheeks toward your eyes
but your leaves are changing in here
as all the fallen do
i watch as one little ballerina races by
unable to keep pace
she collides into a steel wall
half her body in my company
half her body reaching for you
her slippers tear in the struggle
i whisper to her you’re still beautiful
and tell her you should go
she twirls her head blushing
then exposes her drying heart toward me
she waits for me to come for her
she waits for us
to save each other
Copyright Credit: First published by The Margins, the digital magazine of the Asian American Writers’ Workshop. © 2018 Connie Leung. Reprinted with permission of the author.
Source: Poetry (February 2021)