October

after Ana Castillo

It must be October, when the bones
turn yellow. It must be the yellow

of a mistaken bus. The bee
may have thought: the promise

of nectar. The bee
may have thought: long neck,

a flower. Her hair already
a nest, mistaken. Her hair

already a tangle of bees.
It must be October, a bus

full of children. It must be
the mother digging for bones.

Copyright © 2006 Laura Van Prooyen All rights reserved
from The Greensboro Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission