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WORDS FOR SNOW

 

 

I begin to count the words for snow 

 

in the singing languages I know,

 

but can’t wade past the first one, 

 

 

śnieg — a grandmother word —

 

fairy tale of my life

 

with wolves in it. Tiny needles of fate

 

 

stitch my face, my eyes.

 

La neige, I think, and am saved — 

 

the way he could say 

 

 

Je t’aime, but never 

 

“I love you.” What he loved 

 

was the elegant scar

 

 

of my accent. He and I 

in the hollow of his car

talk without touching until I

 

 

whisper goodbye. I watch 

 

the ghost glide 

 

of my hand over his; he laces

 

 

his fingers with mine — 

 

We press into each other’s arms,

 

try to kiss, but cannot —

 

 

our lips will not stick, 

 

our mouths are too dry.

 

We let go in a darker dark, 

 

 

do not know who we are:

 

he the bridegroom of death, 

 

my miraculous error,

 

 

my own season in hell

 

I’ll walk out of — not his 

 

bride, but my own. 

 

*

 

If I were again in that car, 

 

again young and starved, 

 

could I say with an artist’s 

 

 

absolute, hardened heart: 

 

Go ahead, kill yourself,

 

make me a poet —

 

 

No — I want only 

 

that moment of failure,

 

letting go in a darker dark —

 

 

Grandmother, from frost-lily 

 

stars, teach me how to pray 

 

for the dead.

 

 

She answers, “Plant flowers.”