I’m excited to see Lars Van Trier’s Melancholia this week, the title just feels so apt for the moment. The melancholy settling in as we linger in this not-quite-summer-not-quite-autumn-should-be-winter period is odd. Maybe it’s just me. I’ve been watching a lot of Mad Men and feeling a bit Betty Draper as I mope around recovering from stress at work and some personal life oddities. It’s not a bad thing, just interesting. I dyed my hair reddish-brown a few weeks ago. The reddest tones have all but completely faded away, but I’m still using this fancy color enhancing shampoo that looks exactly like blood. Maybe that’s what this poem is about.
Hands befitting the mood of this odd, Indian summer:
sticky warm, skin,
fingers weathering about like wraiths,
stuck clams in sand.
We wait, brace,
listen at the door for her voice
telling us she’s innocent,
she never did it,
bleeding just a little on our behalf.
Winter would clear her,
would it come.
No one would care and we could move on,
tuck in, settle down behind folds of white snow,
her hair flashing in the firelight like a comfort
instead of now, at the end of the driveway,
screaming with dead leaves like a stop sign.