A Fallen Angle

Fat with autumn food, the forest does not know
It is naked now.

It eats up death for supper.

Drunk on a cocktail of summer and vein sap,
The brittle leaves dance:

They see the sun as a mirror ball.

Cider-wild, Eve puts it all on a tab she cannot pay.
She stands – soft, unsteady.

An exit sign flashes in the sun.

She eases herself back, moves slow on the moss floor:
She is naked now.

She steals her supper from the forest plate.

Copyright © 2013, Zoë Mitchell
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