The Amon Liner Poetry Award Poem NOVEMBER

Fall 2012: Issue 92

Abigail Browning

The pumpkin face sags

like a chemo patient’s,


spots down the temples,

weighted, sloping cheeks.


Pockets in long black coats

fill with elegies. Everything


that was is entropied and organized;

Mother is dead and the world


travels its tethered arc.

The farmers carve new rectangles


in the soil, each plot

a blank face in the earth’s geometry.