Autumn, or the Fall of an Empire by Sophie Chouinard

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Autumn, or the Fall of an Empire

The truth is
there is salt in the wound.

The little hand in mine
sweetens the deal, but sweet
or savoury, this is only temporary –
leaves are falling, and autumn is here

to stay. Silence is the wound,
my grandmother told me,

or the other way around, some would
argue. The little hand’s grip is steady
and warm – a mug of fragrant coffee
on a damp lonely morning. There is comfort

in the holding on
just tight enough, but I know
autumn will soon claim him too;
like when you fell from my grace,

and long before the last leaf
gives up on its trembling twig.

Sophie Chouinard

Born and raised in Montreal, Sophie now hails from Toronto, Canada. She is a poetry reader and reviewer at cahoodaloodaling, but makes her big bucks by making people care about people. By night she’s either Batman or runs, either on a trail or after her two sons. Even though her French-Canadian heart loves the ruggedness and beauty of her country, she would rather perpetually eat and drink her way through the world, roadtrippin’ one country at a time. Sophie’s work has been published in Vox Poetica, Up The Staircase Quarterly, and Melancholy Hyperbole.