Two Yellow Leaves
by Erinn Batykefer
October has slicked the mirror-flat rivers with yellow
leaves. We pull them from the current
and mark time: the color of my infant skin under a bili light;
a dozen July apples carried to the kitchen
in your shirt, their yellow sugar slick on a serrated knife.
I see the high sun snapping against sheets on the line,
my hipbones pressing out and opening late one summer,
the yellow outline of bone under skin.
I see here: the 16th Street Bridge flinging skeins of yellow iron
over the flood-ochered Allegheny, this morning’s diner-
on an edge of light as blinding autumn flutters
through the poplars’ paper-coin leaves. My leaf-shaped heart
welling up through the river, yellow.