—IT’S CRAZY WHEN THE THING YOU LOVE THE MOST IS THE DETRIMENT

                                                 Whiteout

The snow I saved for you has settled its grievances with the jar its being kept in. Captive, you might say, if you were here.

But that’s not enough, you would also say.

Each day there’s more snow. Flurries. Blizzards. A whiteout. Snow and snow and snow. 

Each day the voyeur sun strains against the panes with its full-body press, eyes owl-wide, yet not one crystal or clump has melted.

Your sister’s stopped coming by, which is fair, which is good since my tongue was always turning into a toboggan, stalagmites cracking in my throat.

The last thing she said was, “It’s beautiful outside. Have you even seen? Jesus, please.”

Sitting in the kitchen, staring at the jar, muddy slush in my brain, nothing ever thaws. The cold is brutal and raw and honest, an endless freeze.

On those few occasions I do doze, a sheet of slick ice shows up at the center of every dream turning nightmare, my car skirting skating skidding, our boy flying into the night’s frozen white with no arms to catch him, nothing to brace his flight.

And so, this jar? I don’t know why. Maybe it’s something I could.