Young Writers Society

a girl in glasses tells me
she’s bought every christmas gift
but one
(she’s even wrapped a few already)
i tell her it’s december 1st
that sometimes i christmas shop
after the 25th
but this year i’m giving everyone
acorns tied to pieces of floss


a boy in glasses gives me
an early christmas gift
or unsolicited advice
i should move on already

global warming has ensured
the closest we’ve gotten to snow is
november slush
melted quickly in a
46-degree-fahrenheit-blaze


or putting on a thin winter jacket
inside the house to eat ice cream
straight from the carton
confused minneapolitan
skipping the stripe of strawberry
in the neapolitan


anyone older than 30
is still talking about
the great halloween blizzard
of 1991


(22 dead then,
this year all we’re missing
is snow angels)

mary eats a pomegranate
thinks the pin-needle seeds
inside the opaque red fruit
look like something living
glowing almost


between her thumb and pointer finger
in the right light
she can see the seed
shifting and squirming


she pinches it between her fingers
and juice splatters her face
various trips to the sink
turn red to pink to
stainless skin


mary gives up pomegranates
and starts kissing women
sleeping with women
red hair lingers on her hands
the longest
she dreads trips to the sink

december calls for
hot cocoa
preferable in a mug with
reindeer or santa claus or
an outrageously dressed pine tree


at the very least the mug must be
red, green,
or a combination of the two


if hot cocoa is inaccessible
mint tea will suffice


(as long as it comes
in a box with a picture
of candy canes)


***


i keep brewing loose-leaf tea


dried blueberries
turn warm water
a diluted purple color


(like rain or spring)


i need every excuse
to think of you

crime of passion:
laying naked in the snow
your lover's tongue
ripped out

no more kissing
only pecks to
the cheek

or maybe
she's just a work colleague

(my mistake
confusing
lack of clothes
with
presence of love)

and your skulls were bashed in
by hypothermia induced hysteria
or an avalanche
or a yeti
or aliens
not passion

she didn't love you
or didn't say it
yes, it's hard to make love without a body
harder still to confess it without a tongue

instead of sassy & confessional
i am matter-of-fact
shoehorning 10-minutes-ago
into metaphors

writing about a poet
writing about the poet
who wrote
POEMA
on a light bulb

my mouth is spitless
toes without fungus
a penny without
a flip side or
the smell of pennies
without their presence

funny that i sniffed
a mirror
pulled my nose away
surprised
that it didn't smell
like coins

a rock to the head
means a scratch

i'm not aloof
just freezing cold
my scarf abandoned
on a chair
in the living room

It is winter now in Saint Paul.
so, it must be winter in Minneapolis.


at least that’s what the garbage bin says
through gritted teeth, its lid frozen shut.


what the pipe blurts, as it bursts,
spilling water down the sidewalk.


(i think we should call the desire
to lace up figure skates and
glide to our destinations
winter fever)

we sure are cute
for two mediocre people
in ugly christmas sweaters


loose threads itch
at my neck


i want to tear my sweater open
and stand under-dressed
in your living room
with your east coast relatives
watching frozen
christmas cookies crumbling
out of their hands

standing shoulder to shoulder
i wish you would reach out
and touch me

instead you only wrap your arm around me
when i say
i'm cold

crouched on the floor of a book store,
i am staring up at published authors -
when it starts to snow.

when i say that i'm a poet,
i suddenly get the feeling that
i've parted my hair all wrong.

9 pm marks the official start of a snow emergency

(announces an automated voice or THE CITY OF MINNEAPOLIS)

but clouds drag themselves to the edges of the sky
and the snow shuts off by 7:32 pm

barely 16, a boy eats pumpkin pie and ignores his party guest

a man confuses his granddaughter with his third wife's dog

two strangers let snow pour over the edges of their boots
trying to leave room for the other on a narrow path

a girl closes her eyes in the car every time she hears the screeching of tires
but loves the way the road looks, tarmac concealed under snow

they wonder who will call to issue a state of emergency just for them

the way she takes off her boots this winter:

does not bother to undo the laces,
or even bend down to tug at them.
uses the toe of one boot to force the other off,
repeats this with her stocking foot.
then steps into puddles from the snow,
caked on her boots a moment earlier.

wet socks

can't shake the smell of mildew

you cannot tell if it is snowing or if it's just the wind
plucking handfuls of flakes from the ground
and throwing them skywards

you cannot tell if you like the smell of coffee
rotting slowly in your room
or if you're feeling
slightly nauseous

trying to find the center of mass between
hallways saturated with sweat
and nostalgia in 3 numbers on a knob

compare the water from this drinking fountain
to one attached a few inches lower on the wall

snow never sparkled as much as it does now
walking alone in the glow of a lamp post

for a moment your fingers are covered in metal staples
your hands announce someones missing parakeet

the snow announces it won't survive the winter

someone is always dancing in the moonlight
luckily there are less than 8 hours and 47 minutes of daylight

if you don't mind drinking coffee in the darkness
or walking to the bus stop in the darkness
or eating dinner in the darkness

or sweating inside where
someone has dialed the heat up to 72

(you are wearing something made of fleece
and half the light bulbs are burned out in your room)

if you don't mind the darkness
there is plenty of time to dance in the moonlight

if you don't mind your ears falling off
(your beanie didn't keep them warm)