Poetry: Kimberly Ann Southwick

We heard Texas froze over
like a bed of ice, nice for sleep,
or to fall and hurt your knee, a rink
for holding hands, turning circles.
We drew one, a circle in the snow
to show where the sun was in the sky
today and then tomorrow, we pointed:
it will be here. An orbit, a pattern.

We heard Texas froze over,
and we knew we were done,
packed our bags for the caves.
Let’s go, Sammy didn’t want to go.
We left him lying in the snow,
arms and feet spread,
making angels, making saviors.

We heard Texas froze over.
They say it’s warmer in New England,
Amber said, cell phone breaking
from the cold like ice crashing
to solid ground, falling from gutters
(we looked at the stars,
one last time). We filled in
the blanks where her words split
and told her we were breaking our promise,
leaving tonight, it was ending
and she could meet us there.
The call dropped or she hung up.
We’ll never know.

All rights reserved to Kimberly Ann Southwick.

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