eating the moon

AUGUST HELD MY HAND

and led me to the threshold.
August warmed me like the sun,
laid beside me in bed like a lover,
plaited my hair, laughed at my jokes,
obsessed over bell hooks and ghazals with me,
stayed up past midnight writing poems
by moonlight, saw vultures everywhere,
left a poem on my skin like a kiss,
tugged gently at my wrist,
asked, Are you ready to go on?
Are you ready for September?
Are you ready to be made new?

Are you ready to lose me
like a coin
or a country
or a grandmother?

To August, I said, I collect losses
like seashells.