I have a complicated relationship with the month of September. Two weddings, one divorce, the beginning of the school year and the final crushing of several adolescent crushes are the highlights and lowlights.

And I would be remiss to leave out 9/11. As a native New Yorker willfully exiled to Boston, I was profoundly affected. Back in ’83, I spent a week cleaning carpets on the 59th floor of the North Tower. Sometimes I absent-mindedly expect to see the Towers when I look at the Manhattan skyline.

I’ve tried to write poems about my experience with September, but have never been able to capture the essence of our uneasy alliance in words. The realist in me knows that September is an arbitrary bundling of 30 days taking its name from the Latin word for “seven”. The surrealist in me sees a bird flying upside-down.

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