Author’s Note: I’ve always thought that daylight in the month of October in North America has a special, glorious quality which can’t be quantified. October is also a time of intense back-to-school activities; it reminds me of my arithmetic and calculus classes. Thus, I used the term “asymptote,” borrowed from my coaches, to describe an imperfect attempt at getting at the essence of October light: not quite there but tending to decipher its enduring splendour.
October morning, the light seen
through the backhand of a silver moon—
anchoring us to the bottom of the night,
through which the hours pass,
like prime numbers through Eratosthenes’ sieve,
mindful of our doubles and ghosts alike,
of lunacy and autumn winds
—stretched out on this day’s asymptote.
Let it be said of October that there is no boundary
at its last outpost of fickle warmth—
a time to enjoy when the end is near,
freed from the poison of numbers,
inside the veins of the last green leaves.
And here we are, left behind,
in the race to follow an unseen summer—
our hearts muted at dawn.
Irina Moga lives and writes in East York, Ontario, Canada. Her latest book, a collection of poems, Variations sans palais, was published with Éditions L’Harmattan (2020). Her work has appeared in literary magazines including Canadian Literature, carte-blanche, PRISM International, Foreign Literary Journal, Poetry Quarterly, and elsewhere. Website: www.irinamoga.com
Delmarva Review publishes evocative poetry, fiction, and nonfiction selected from thousands of new submissions during the year. Designed to encourage outstanding new writing from the region, the nation, and beyond, the literary journal is nonprofit and independent. Financial support comes from tax-deductible contributions and a grant from Talbot Arts with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: www.DelmarvaReview.org