Category: Poetry

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.

Elizabeth Joy Levinson

always winter

Kim Backalenick Escobar

I bundle up against the chill/
your cold words fall around
me/ like a blizzard/ a blinding
white out/ and I wish I could
white out the things we said/
I layer sweaters and coats and
scarves/ and still the frost creeps
in/ we are one conversation/ one
thought/ away from being
snowed in/ so I start shoveling
before there’s no way out/

Kim Backalenick Escobar

Yule Known

Kate Gough

We were yule log
and hot tea people,
the kind with hearty laughs
and drunken minds.
We would gather round the hearth to rest. 

But this harvest round, as the night tucks in
the yellow moon is duller. 

From the blizzard hell
we hide in our hovels alone.

We are dry biscuit
and cold coffee people,
the kind with lonely hearts,
and bitter rinds.
We haven’t laughed out loud in months. 

But deep inside,
we knit our way around the heartbeat.
Wool to numb,
we taste of cinnamon and ginger,
a hot kick the mulled wine needed,
and we melt
gently. 

From this godawful winter,
through fair isle sweaters and tears on the cheeks tender,
the fireplace is known.

Kate Gough

Snowstorm Overdose

Naoise Gale

It started in Winter, snow on the ground like
A muffled high, singular pills swallowed like
Falling flakes, taste of rainwater and perfunctory
Minerals, then a cupped hand’s worth, snowballs
Of smelted ice that pounded the chin and smashed
Powdery on the frost-sheathed gravel. Summer
Came but the snow didn’t melt, it was a cold
Cap atop the nubile grass which should have
Sprouted and sprung, should have emerged
Regardless. There was a coldness that
Thrilled, that divided, that ached. Like a
Slipped disk, crescent-shaped, or a dislocated
Shoulder. Like a cracked knee, or a black ice
Bruise. I kept on slipping as though the slide
Would save me, as though piling snow atop
Snow atop snow was a solution. One night,
The sky was white and I shivered on the
Brink of a snowstorm overdose. Flakes
Fat as coins blurred on the horizon. The
Wind swept drifts outside the doors.
The house was a cold fact. My arms arched,
As though making snow angels. And my blue
Lips blistered, freeze-burnt. When I awoke,
There was stinking yellow grass outside my
Window. Daffodils in a vase by the bed. My
Mother in a spring dress. The bleat of a heart
Monitor. Now I wear a transdermal patch,
And the snow is molten slush, seeping through
My pores so I do not vomit. The sun is out
Again. But I miss my footsteps in the snow,
Disappeared like cold breath before
Anyone had the chance to see them.

Naoise Gale

Snow

Kathryn de Leon
 Sequoia National Park, California
                                       Late March

I. White

The snow left itself everywhere
while I slept,
a secret party set up
with a voice of feathers,
its feet so small
its work was soundless.

In the morning
I found a whiskered forest,
the earth grown old
overnight.

It is spring
but the trees still carry snow
like sleeping babies,
a final, drowsy white
just before color.

II. Death

Death is like snow,

voiceless,
moves without hands
or feet,
faceless but can see,
darkens the sky,
can cover the earth,
leaves no color,
only white,

lies down
over everything,
blank as dreamless sleep,
cold and hard
as bones.

III. The Body

After three days of snow
the eyes are starved for sky.
They scan the morning
for a scrap of blue,
a patch of green.

Finally
afternoon tosses sunlight
onto the bed
like a new dress.
Then the body stretches
as if it has been ill,
ready to move,
feel warmth.

After so much white
the skin has grown pale.
If it is cut
it will bleed snow.

Kathryn de Leon

Moods of Falling

Joanna Friedman

Icicle mountains cling to hard earth.
I want to drop into an ocean fire,
swim to a beach of bare-blue sky,
and melt into your waiting hand. 

In caves of lime-stained walls,
my arms spread to grip bedrock.
Dissolution seeps from crevices.
In frost I write my glass façade. 

Tonight, I wear a winter coat,
and on that coat another coat lays thick.
Despite the heaviness, I dance a waltz,
and drink and smoke a forget-you fest. 

I cling to clouds, and want to fall.
God, do I want to fall,
I have to fall
But branches of that tree,
I love.
A safety net so thick,
I cannot fall
in love.

I crack the glass inside the old garage.
Shattering pain is all I hear for now.
Your window’s wrapped with cellophane,
it keeps my love from spilling out too much. 

A sill juts out from cliff stone wall,
from grace I step into the sky.
Prisms diffuse the rainbow light,
full speed, I fly
and flurry,
into you.

Joanna Friedman