Canticle for the Last Leaves
by Sara Blazevic
Alex said his first Christmas in recovery everyone egg-shelled
around him and he didn’t know why, he liked his family, and
Christmas, there was safety, sweetness, aunts pulling him
aside to offer small kindnesses. He made Brandy Alexanders
crisp from the shaking, taught me about bruising
the drink. The water ran hot and I liked the head-down parts
of the work, automatic. There was something about being
watched. All these men. Bugsy brought pizza most nights and
I ate it too fast, so hot the cheese burned my finger
a little, a baby named Cash growing bigger
in his phone. Steve was there every night too
and a dog named Mutt Mutt whose owner strolled him in
before close most evenings, and Jason at the far end,
and the man who sang in the back room
like a salvation cry as the drums broke
together and apart. Something was hanging on
by a thread. I could feel it inside me, ready to snap.
There was a tender quality to how he held
my ankle when it swelled, shading
itself in with bone-long bruises.
The leaves will fall, they must fall,
when the parts of them that love the wind
edge out the parts that love the tree.
around him and he didn’t know why, he liked his family, and
Christmas, there was safety, sweetness, aunts pulling him
aside to offer small kindnesses. He made Brandy Alexanders
crisp from the shaking, taught me about bruising
the drink. The water ran hot and I liked the head-down parts
of the work, automatic. There was something about being
watched. All these men. Bugsy brought pizza most nights and
I ate it too fast, so hot the cheese burned my finger
a little, a baby named Cash growing bigger
in his phone. Steve was there every night too
and a dog named Mutt Mutt whose owner strolled him in
before close most evenings, and Jason at the far end,
and the man who sang in the back room
like a salvation cry as the drums broke
together and apart. Something was hanging on
by a thread. I could feel it inside me, ready to snap.
There was a tender quality to how he held
my ankle when it swelled, shading
itself in with bone-long bruises.
The leaves will fall, they must fall,
when the parts of them that love the wind
edge out the parts that love the tree.
Sara Blazevic
Sara Blazevic is a Croatian-American poet and labor organizer from New York City. Her work has been published in Thrush, APIARY, Newport Review, Northern Colorado Writers, and Bellingham Review. She graduated in 2024 from the Brooklyn Poets Mentorship Program.