
This selection, chosen by guest curator and Sundress intern Katherine DeCoste, is from No Other Rome by Heather Green, released by University of Akron Press in 2021.
The Transitive Properties of Snow
Tonight it snowed, copious, like
when I had chicken pox, all over
the night sky’s skin and sickening.
Back home, you, inside my skin,
and a party with fake snow! There
I had a kind of freedom: you are
you, and I am me. It wasn’t easy
to live like that, one body gazing out
at another, but I grew up in a warm place.
Then I got cold. I got a fever, and
the fever changed me. Now my
body slips into another, and I am full of love.
Birds of paradise stood in the window,
then the ocean and its moving boats.
My fidelities multiplied, not split,
but doubled and doubled again,
until thousands or more encircled us.
Magic, I said, looking up from the bed
as you stepped out. Now here I am,
way up North, lonely as a snowflake
in a sea of like shapes. There’s a little
sand in my shoes and in my suitcase.
There’s the light; there’s the suitcase.
I finally understand a painting
I’ve seen of snow as paper cut-outs
strung on bare trees, to show the way
the world forgets itself so softly.
The light got under my skin. My hands
wave around the dark and net
through snowflakes. Strings break.


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