FOUR THINGS by LEX LANZA
january 1, 2021
a fire
freezing rain
two kinds of crackling
something hits my cheek
and I can’t tell if it’s a bit of ice or a spark
he leaves me for a bit, goes back inside
when he returns, he asks,
now before I throw this in, is this yours?
he holds out a single sock
it appears to be thin wool,
green or blue or maybe both,
patterned at the ankle
I choke back a laugh
reminded of Monsters Inc.
and wondering how long he’s had it,
how he knew exactly where it was
no, that’s definitely not mine
after, I follow him back to the house,
moving slowly / not speaking
we didn’t bring flashlights
and there’s a layer of ice encrusting the snow
that makes me take small, unsure steps,
certain I am about to slip
in an unseen lump of snow
a new year
a few garments burned
the symbolic, slow collapse
of a fire built with plenty of
space underneath
delayed reaction
there are too many Priuses
in any given parking lot
at any given moment
and every roadkill you see
is a platypus
maybe you are a wiser
person for knowing this now
but it is a delayed reaction –
some sort of overcompensation
for all the times you stood perfectly still
in his kitchen, brain darting away
while the realities of the situation
broke over your head like the eggs
he cracked into the enameled green
dutch oven on mornings you were
both still trying to come down
are you safe, now? what is safe?
is safe scanning the parking lot
every single time?
how long will you be making up
for all the times you did not flee?
oct 1.
on the day we buried your mother,
I realize the importance of the delicata squash
sometimes I think my poetry is only good for recording days people don’t want to remember
BLACKOUT CURTAINS
Lex Lanza (she/they) is a librarian-to-be who lives in the Adirondacks. She enjoys kayaking on small bodies of water, foraging for mushrooms, and hiking with her sleek black dog, Gilbert.