Those Who Survive

November stalks the land as a discordant melody. So, I curl up like a house cat at the Devil’s feet, warming his burgundy toes through autumn’s slow retreat. The dead demand their day and I must wait until they’re done. My ego’s gone necrotic, my sanity’s in tatters. The hounds of hell nip at my heels while I pull on a knitted sweater.

October has the hang of horror, but November does it better: purgatory’s icy gaze that holds until December. She’s a song I can’t pin down, still I memorize the words. I hum them out of tune, but the storm only gets worse. The clouds cast shadows overhead and I proceed to hold my breath, as if I’m driving past a graveyard warding off my own demise.

Life is thrust upon us and Death greets us as old friends. He admires the audacity of those who dare survive. Still, if you escape the labyrinth, he’s what’s on the other side. He’s taken eight lives already, but I still have one to give. I keep it close to my breast—I know this one’s permanent.

Inspiration

This prose poem was inspired by November. I see this month as the end of Fall and the beginning of winter: a sort of waiting period, or purgatory, between Halloween and Christmas. I have always been fascinated by the Day of the Dead, which happens the first week of this month. I know I’ve written a few poems personifying death recently, but I’ve been enjoying this new direction. I might even make it a theme in one of my upcoming books.

My favorite things to do in November:

• carve the pumpkins I bought in October

• celebrate the Day of the Dead

• participate in NaNoWriMo!

• celebrate my daughter’s birthday (she’s three!)

• Make baked Mac ‘n Cheese for Thanksgiving

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