Marvin Lurie


A few roses hold back summer colors
long after leaves have clogged the rain gutters.
My wife is making fried green tomatoes
from those that started too late.
Their floured slices look like our lawn
with its first light snow.
What has not been laid in for winter
will not be.
We once raised a goose for this season.
All summer he patrolled the frontiers of our yard
and only stood down to eat the corn we gave him.
I haven’t forgotten that goose,
how he looked in my eyes when I came for him.
Together we entered that ancient ritual:
death given, death to be received.

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