Talking about Autumn Rain

I hereby submit this yellow leaf as a charter,
wet & preserved under snowpack—Syracuse
blunt, a backyard bluster of stark white—

though it's early December which means it's
autumn & the rains that rain & melt the snow
are autumn rains. Sirs: This application contains

six parts—a missing casement, two atria, two
vehicles & respected sobbings. Also,
more than a gallon of blood. Please wear gloves

when handling to ensure proper emotional distance
from the exploding world I can't make sense
of. Enclosed, please find a suspension bridge

of glued popsicle sticks & a crayon sketch
of a mechanical calla lily that blooms on demand,
complete with conveyor belt attachment to deliver

that quiet beauty anywhere in the compartmental
soul overnight. We can all wake up to love. Also
random gears. Also teeth. Items listed may have

settled during shipping. People may have learned
to accept the same pale things they railed against
in the bright sunshine of their morning lives.

It's late afternoon & I'm sunk in the sheets, tucked
like an expectorant mummy, coughing out because
I gladly believed the lies they told about living forever.

I'm certain where I'm going is cold. In preparation
I've scooped out my own brain & ziplocked it
for freshness, I've plucked my eyeballs out, one by

one by one, & dropped them into clay jars next to
the heart-shaped shard framed on the wall.
My masterpiece. My late blue period. I'll call it

faith because I won't need my senses in this
new world. I pledge to ascertain with just these
desiccating devices; logic & fact, I'm decapitating

myself to see everything brand new. Upon request,
I will send you an egg via bright orange & red
parachute & thanks in advance for your consideration.

I hope you'll see fit to incorporate this bewilderment,
to solidify this relentless uncertainty. For a quarter,
I can print leaflets stuffed with hymns to pass out

to the masses. Four months out of the year, small
leaves drop from the trees, emptied of their lives,
asleep & weightless. I sign all my papers with an X

between two palm tress signifying where to dig
for treasure, ignoring a road sign saying turn back.
Make this organization sing.

Copyright © 2010 Nate Pritts All rights reserved
from Black Warrior Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission