Sara's November

At least she died in her favorite month.
I hope that’s what she saw on her deathbed
as she waited,
Like the agape bare branches of trees,
For whatever the heavens
had in store for her.
My nerves reach out,
Stripped of their colorful leaves:
Each one pierces at my skin.
The coldness seeps in,
Crowding in my hollow chest.
Yet I know my heart still lies inside:
I can feel Bellatrix’s knife.
And I know my heart still beats:
the pain pulsates, reaching each nerve,
Feeding the poison of
the hemorrhage none can staunch,
The curse I can’t bear.
In the divine glass,
We see face to face.
Every November morning
I wish the blow were fatal,
So, like the Second Brother,
I can truly join her.