(I’ve been re-reading a lot of sorta older stuff of mine, so here you go…)
The first time I remember it snowing,
the sky was singing the complexity of starting from foundations.
I didn’t translate it until later,
with memories of twelve-strings and black and white scenes—
everyone loans you something.
The sky still has glass in its eyes,
and I don’t know what I have in mine,
but my fingers are branching into ice,
crystals collapsing and no, I’m not smoking anything,
but I wake up face-first in snowbanks and falling,
frantic from the beginning.
Winter is not calamity,
just a channel through which it travels—you’re feeling the urgency
of keeping this from melting into the mediocrity.
Trunks are snapping and my fingers remember how to move.
Snow was slicking the slight hillsides when he called me for the first time,
the same day where I forced myself not to worry that my jaw would break,
not recalling that I’d given it away—
and I can no longer add properly,
calculate how parts fit and interlock
and weigh, and maybe
these elements are the kind that will sublimate
but I’m still inhaling snowflakes, ratios that froze,
in hopes of finding a balance around my bones.
Snow is always associated
with something wholly alive in the sting of it,
specks splintering across my dress,
configurations coating the church glass.
We drove behind a truck and hoped we wouldn’t wreck.
We slid with cardboard under our stomachs and I hoped your voices wouldn’t wreck this—
every winter, I find my tires turning backwards.
My memory is not a fireplace, but it crackles,
and yet cannot consume the cold.
Here’s another night in blankets,
another night of selves time stole.