by Meg Freer
For the Tree in Autumn
Last evening’s rains stripped the tree of her leaves—
scattered, gone—now her naked branches burn,
curl, and sway; like Anticlea she grieves,
awaiting Odysseus’ return.
Did my mother howl when the fever took
her son, did she pull her hair while swaying
herself undone while her earth and sea shook
her to the linoleum floor praying
to the gods, my father cracked and hollow
as Achilles’ ship or this weeping oak,
all unmoored, more, more, more of Priam’s woe
stripped of leaves, kin, wearing agony’s cloak
such griefs of autumn provide no warning,
the winds die, no sun rises this morning.
Originally from New York, Beth Boylan now writes near the ocean in New Jersey. Her work may be found or forthcoming in New York Quarterly, Thimble, Peatsmoke, Whale Road Review, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry. Like any feral being, when Beth is not writing, she enjoys wandering through the woods and along the beach. Her poetry has been nominated for both a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and she may be found on Instagram at @bethiebookworm.
Meg Freer is an award-winning poet and piano teacher in Ontario, where she enjoys the outdoors year-round. She has published two poetry chapbooks and holds a Graduate Certificate with Distinction in Creative Writing from Toronto’s Humber School of Writers. She keeps visual images in her head for a long time and her inspiration for poetry and photography often comes from intriguing juxtapositions, clusters and angles in both the human and the natural world. Highlights of her published work can be found on her Facebook page.