Poetry by Annie Stenzel
the grey sky’s a perfect match
for my inner November.
Or is it even that late in my life’s
calendar? We’re meant not to know—so let’s pretend
there’s a gravestone prepared with August 25, 1950
followed by a dash, then an empty space.
It’s November, and this pale daylight’s
contracted to a smattering of hours:
short days cut off at the knees.
A survey of prior Novembers comes up
odd, but still familiar: think Thanksgiving
hunkered down in its customary position
as the month’s solid anchor. Other months
carry their own burdens, but November
is a cliff the year careens toward. November,
and the merino sweaters my sister steadily provides
tumble from their shelf one by one, unfold
to shelter my body from shivers. Soon enough
woolen socks will be the only option
for my feet; sandals long since tossed to the rear
of the closet to wait their turn.
November, and the front door that I like to leave ajar
for air now latches firmly to exile the chill
and keep scant warmth and light inside, for company.
Annie Stenzel (she/her) is a lesbian poet who was born in Illinois, but did not stay put. Her second full-length collection, Don’t misplace the moon, was published in 2024 by Kelsay Books. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Canadian, U.S. and U.K. journals including Action, Spectacle; Gavialidae; Innisfree Poetry Journal; The MacGuffin; Pine Hills Review; Sheila-na-gig; SWWIM; The Lake; Thimble; and Whale Road Review. A poetry editor for the online journal West Trestle Review, she lives on unceded Ohlone land within walking distance of the San Francisco Bay.
