I want windows to start talking again,
sharing their skyline perception of snow,
pressed like a shield. Dig in, dig in.
Snow will leave the sun to anyone
whose eyes will linger. And burn,
says the man from inside his estate,
leering. The neighborhood leaves him footprints.
And freeze, says the fireplace, marble-mantled,
blooming in the exhaust of newspapers
erased into soot. I wish I could say
something and someone would want it.
Clouds have said snow. Breathy, dark tone.
Out come the coats. Everyone wants
protection. The kids kiss, then share a Pepsi
in the same ice rain where an enigma
of blanket and beard huddles beneath
playground equipment. The roads are socialists,
bending equally for travelers, who may
sleep or speed. Who, in the vast sky,
can distinguish? Not the birds, frozen
in belonging. Not the windows, watching
blue become gray, who won’t speak up.
Where does the echo of watching go, the weather
empty of everything? The snow always leaves,
returning what it takes.
of my grandfather
I shouldn’t say he trapped doves in his mouth
his questions of my faith only imitating cages
always gave the birds a chance
to flee into the black line
differentiating sunset blood from olive groves
where anyone could easily be erased
then would come the night
gently hung like a lung
moon flickering between the smog of clouds
his rhythm imperfect
against the distant shudder of gunfire
I want to call him a psalm
I sing to the air empty of audience
a book swung past its final comforting page
a well choked with roots until collapse
the earth salivating beneath its ruin
never tasting it
when I let his name escape
I mean alive not a life
I live in the scars of what I used to think
in the dark
I tear open my window
trace veins of sky
stars like bullets through the prayer I send up
because he somehow still requests it
if asked to delineate his portrait
I would spend the most time on his hands
doors shut with hymns
nearly fluttering open
white wings against my face cold with answers
Bayleigh Fraser is a young American poet currently residing and writing in Canada. She briefly studied at Stetson University in Deland, Florida, and plans to continue her education in Canada. Her work has appeared in A Bad Penny Review, Antiphon Poetry, The Brooklyn Quarterly, Hart House Review, The Lake, One, Rattle and other publications.