Phoenix aren’t real, he says
as we turn a corner and walk down the street
dried leaves crunching with every step
The avenue is lined with bright red trees
The sharp December sun finds our eyes
casting a fiery golden glow upon the scarlet leaves
I let go of his hand to unwrap the sweater from my waist
and pull it over my head. so chilly, this almost-winter
I wonder, if trees could feel
what they would think about our fascination with their death
the showtime we’ve made of their changing colors
the red — give us the red!
like moths drawn to the flame, we crave the spectacular burning of plumage
until the January rain washes away the
ashen debris
revealing naked limbs, bared yet
unashamed of loss
Was it ever real?
we’ll wonder to ourselves in February
A nearby streetlight flickers on, a second 4pm sun
I begin to wonder
Does he not believe in rebirth? new beginnings? the next spring?
red birds?
Turning numb, I fit my cold hand back in his. Warmth.
Or maybe just not phoenixes.
