There’s something exquisitely cathartic in October. You bring out the rats, you feel the first sting of cold on the wind, you dress to provoke fear or lust, or, best of all, a mix of both. Things usually forbidden and nasty take center-stage. Death and gore become festivities or outfit accessories. There’s illness, pus, blood and guts. All for the hell of it! This October I am reduced to blood and flesh and I am here for it. Of course, October can also be flannel sweaters, full-moon nights, warm orange-red-yellow-brown-tinted photos, cardigans and chai lattes. It’s a personal choice, and these poems take it both ways.
Creative Writing Editor