Autumn

by Leila Chatti 

Her crying unfinished
but the day forged on, requiring her
ordinary labor. The cat
with its innocent hunger.
Trash festering below the sink.
She listened for some proof
she was loved, but God was busy
not existing. Then she looked a while
at the sun through the tree
through the window, otherwise
unframed. Well, not the sun
but the light she understood
as the sun, as so often she confused
something’s origin with its consequence—and she thought
this substitution might reveal something
important about her, then
she thought there might be nothing important
about her, and a little
residual feeling welled up
and whatever it was kept shining shining shining.