Snow day
I set a tea kettle on top of a snowman.I’m pretending I don’t have laundry to do,that the drywall isn’t crackedin the bedroom, that I’m stillthe sixteenth inch thick bar of steelI was in my twenties, when if you bent meI sprang back to where I’d been, lonelyfor the previous condition of my existence.Snow people like meat peopleare elegies – all they do is die.At least this one is capableof a cup of tea. It’s sadbut all my snowhorses have failed,all my levitations and wings,all my attempts to feel prettyexcept when looking in the mirrorof chimney smoke on the horizon.
Shake
Drove home. Home home. The first home.
Remembered being ten and afraid of the dark,the light, of cats and rats and mowers,threes and Qs and Zs, of…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2024