by Sarah Felder
Layers. Layering/folding over
Gates of houses
Following snow trails this is
The first snow I’ve
Seen that sticks to the
Curves of Octobers ancient
Lettering: throws, hurls itself
At those hard to reach
Creaks of hour to hour life;
Divorce, inside of its magenta
Creases a monotonous color like
The underside of velvet
Textile; the insecurities;
Pull of feeling on the backside
Of cheekbones (she tells me her
Translucent tear ducts are blocked,
They only flow every six months)
March is the month that cold lives
In only in New England though
Glows on our white faces
Dry, skin, backs of our hands,
White with snow, scars pink
Outward, obvious microscopic
Views on the inside of
A bee hive: corpulence, the scent
Of dogs after being caked with
The skin of the mud flats.
(I miss the way she closes one eye when I say something stupid)
[author ]I grew up on Martha’s Vineyard off the coast of Massachusetts. I love poetry, and always have, something about the cadence of it. I attend APU as a Liberal Studies: Literature major. [/author]
