Anthem (Snow)
1 Minute Read Time
When we first moved in together, there was somewhere
a dull blade of moon and expansive fields like inland seas.
And surely clouds were visible to many, a distant carapace of sky,
and snow tapered along fences into sharpness.
And what of the honking horns in cities and bus doors
whooshing open then closed? And lovers gazing at ceilings
and whispering words familiar in the throat, ones mouthed
so many times before, some great cacophonous voice?
Love, then, was the salt breeze and the tufts of weeds
growing in sand and taillights on the freeway after dark
and a crack in the pale blue of a robin’s egg held in a palm.
The attenuated hours became the raft on which we rode,
the sea beneath us black or gray or green or blue with love,
and somewhere, always, the propeller in the chest quickened
or shut down, some circuitry of brain illuminating its own
existence. And I remember the heft of your suitcase
in my hand. You were climbing from your car,
and everywhere a chaos of snow fell around us.
Read more from Issue 15.1.
