“How I lived a childhood in snow…”

– The Decemberists

All my childhood was snow; summer snow

below the fires of the forth and September

snow in my bowl rushed before the bus rose

up a pelted hill. And sometimes, I am sure

if you cut me open I would not be recognized


as white, as anything but smoke. Sometimes

all my words were snow and I would push


or pile it in the corner

of my room, I would lay

in bed and watch porn sprout


under snow at the end of the spectrum, snow

so much I forget the names of little flowers


father calls weeds. And still I have

whole years of snow, I return to snow

like a salmon and like salmon I know


the agony of arriving – is this any way to spend

a day, a life, ploughing snow, and maybe I should

let them be, let the crystals pile high, raise

the roof beams, maybe this week or next

I will place one rare flake in a cigar box


leave it at your door

by way of explanation.


First published in Valve, Issue 3, October 2013