Unfinished Essays on Snow

Carouseling the same
slippery patch
on rented skis feels
Sisyphean, a minute loop
on mountains that bear
throat-stopping titles.
Molten, watery

Cadbury’s: the prize
for these hours of
geometry.
My patchwork snowsuit
is an 80’s sax solo
on a blank cassette

*

He cooks stew
in his bedroom,
which is psychotic
but my only complaint.
We keep a peace lily next
to the slow cooker, and
snow falls when we sleep.
I put on a lace dress
and sling my house keys
into the snow.
Weeks later, thaw reveals
rusted silver
on wet grass

*

The girls wear heeled
boots in the drift:
Iridium ankles, surely.
Over croutons I am
Enlightened on
DJ boyfriends 
with coke habits
and 20th century
novel names. I leave
on a streetcar, thinking
my personality an 
Achilles: too small to
part and portion

*

Someone said trees talk
to each other but
I can’t see the pattern
under the eiderdown of
January. Milo darts
like an arrow to me,
to Dad, to the future 
and back again
as if to say, 
everything is fine,
come with me
and I will show you
what’s next