False Narrative
Elizabeth Joy Levinson
Again, the snow falls,
again, we all try
to capture the flakes
in pixels the way
the flakes catch the light,
the way the city sparkles
under a blanket of white,
white and light.
What is it about a thing that sparkles?
what is it about a diamond,
about a row of sequins,
expertly stitched to a sliver of a dress,
or the mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling,
What is it about a crystal highball glass
with a bubble of air in the base?
Kids split mica sheets until it is a transparent film,
they try to chip the glitter out of a piece of granite.
We have imagined magpies
lining their nests with shining objects,
when really,
we just want to lay down
these tired bodies,
in the soft, cold snow,
let the drifts
cover our ashen faces,
and make us lovely again.
