Out the window the above us upside-down snow makes me think
of Mary Ruefle who is thinking of sex, of my ex-boyfriend
with whom I never saw snow, & how now in this bed
with you that absent snow is a metaphor for all the ways
he & I invented to be wrong for each other. We agreed that snow
light was the most beautiful, that there would someday be good winter sex
& not California sex & there wasn’t. Without him, I have Buffalo, New York sex.
Now in this bed with you I cry for the third time not because I miss him
but because he held his edges together so poorly that his anger, his insecure
would ooze out all over me, because the big, strong man in his head & mirror
liked to kick the small, soft kindness he could be instead, because my kindness
is wounded again. You remind me of all my best friends.
Out the window the above us upside-down snow makes me think
of Mary Ruefle, of the birds you thought you heard chirping
as the sky slushed, the way we laid quiet to listen for them & sighed relief
at their absence, the care with which you hoped their bird bodies safe.
of Mary Ruefle who is thinking of sex, of my ex-boyfriend
with whom I never saw snow, & how now in this bed
with you that absent snow is a metaphor for all the ways
he & I invented to be wrong for each other. We agreed that snow
light was the most beautiful, that there would someday be good winter sex
& not California sex & there wasn’t. Without him, I have Buffalo, New York sex.
Now in this bed with you I cry for the third time not because I miss him
but because he held his edges together so poorly that his anger, his insecure
would ooze out all over me, because the big, strong man in his head & mirror
liked to kick the small, soft kindness he could be instead, because my kindness
is wounded again. You remind me of all my best friends.
Out the window the above us upside-down snow makes me think
of Mary Ruefle, of the birds you thought you heard chirping
as the sky slushed, the way we laid quiet to listen for them & sighed relief
at their absence, the care with which you hoped their bird bodies safe.
C. M. Taylor is a poet, songwriter, painter, and essayist living in Buffalo, NY. They earned their BA in Creative Writing and Dance Studies from Knox College in 2016. They serve as Art Editor for Variant Lit. More of their work can be found at Poke, Ghost City Review, and elsewhere. Twitter: @carma_t; Instagram: @car_ma_t.