It is cold enough to see the breath of your stories.
by Bob Arcania
I tucked you into the nearest mound of snow, up to
your nose, and thought about how the toes of my socks
were damp, and I only wanted to go inside for a moment.
I left you there,
I did not think
about the way your pockets would fill with the white powder,
and how the smell of it would never leave your flesh.
You asked me to explain the smell of snow when I tucked
you in deep to the bed. I made pancakes,
instead talking about the way butter melts.
Author's Note: Iowa gets chilly, and Iowa gets lonely--if only there were a space heater large enough to keep it solid company.
Posted on 12/22/2008
Copyright © 2022 Bob Arcania
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Nanette Bellman on 12/22/08 at 04:36 PM|
first of all, the title of this alone, could stand by itself. it's very powerful. and the last stanza and line...is like a slap in the face. loved the author's note too.
|Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 12/23/08 at 12:12 AM|
i miss the snow and now i want pancakes. and this is a great piece!