Your black coat is a door
in the storm. The snow
we don’t mention
clings to your boots & powders
& puffs. & poof. Goes.
Dust of the fallen. Right here
at home. The ache
of someone gone-missing. Walk it off
like a misspoken word.
Mound of snow. Closed door.
I could open it.
Or maybe just, you know—
brush it off.
Then what? The snow
on the other side. The sound
of what I know & your, no, inside it.
 
Copyright © 2015 by Yona Harvey. Used with permission of the author. |
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About This Poem
“Writing this poem I was thinking of strangers helping to dig a friend’s car out of the snow; how that friend, born in France, once expressed frustration with Americans who teach children to fear strangers; why snowfall in Pittsburgh can feel routine and defeating; domestic abuse; and how to collapse those thoughts into one space.”
—Yona Harvey
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Yona Harvey is the author ofHemming the Water (Four Way Books, 2013). She teaches at the University of Pittsburgh and lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
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Most Recent Book by Harvey
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"Footprint on Your Heart" by Gary Lenhart
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"Untitled [Toward night]" by Kevin Goodan
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"Snow" by Naomi Shihab Nye
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Poem-a-Day
Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends.
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