Poetry

The Snowman

Untouched, white snow glistens, austere,

Under a stark, orange streetlight at midnight,

As hot breath and smoke mingle in the air

And I try to empty my chest of a memory,

Cough it up into the silence,

And release it in the cold night.

Poisonous vapours dull the sharp cold,

But when the fire is extinguished in the snow

It does not extinguish the warm breath

That I feel on my forehead from weeks ago,

Or curling kisses that seeped into me,

Or the hot scent that clung to my core.

Gathering crisp snow in my hands

I build a tiny snowman on the wall,                 

With two hard, black stones for eyes,

And carefully smooth his contours,

Neck perfectly into back, the line of soft lips,

And, crouching, gaze at him without tears.

Aileen Ferris