The Geology of October Children

October Children are moonmilk
veins and a thirst for fire.
Amber eyes by a flashlight’s beam,
fossilized resin seaming
opaque shards with murky light
yellow beneath layers of crust.
Theirs is a paleontology
revealed through the scar
and scrape of long nails
scavenging lost symbols, forgotten
rites, written in rock and flesh.

Their souls are arthropods
scurrying along unmapped trails
that dip, dingy, into sedimentary places
where pulse muffles
and subterranean capillaries are dammed.

October Children: a queer alloy
of pagan chants and harvest nights.
Wedged between solstices, cast
by the rot of vegetation and the sweet
clot of sap, polished by coarse wool and crisp
northerlies— in that bronze age of the year,
amidst craggy moors, they raise their crucibles,
drink broth from the bones of masters’ feasts.
Their alchemy is a fifth, unforgiving element:
unnamed, whose density rivals
the core of stars gone cold.

Faye Sabrage Brontide

Faye Sabrage Brontide writes and studies Gothic literature at the University of Texas at San Antonio. When she’s not racking up library fines, she’s working on her Y.A. novel, walking her dachshund children, and drinking too much coffee. Post-doc, she plans to continue teaching creative writing, literature, and drama, empowering students through the literary arts while subversively reimagining hegemonic epistemes of the monstrous (a.k.a. professional monster advocate). Contact her at Visit her author website at