Poetry by Emily Lacey
You’re not even mad
that you’re bundled in a pink snowsuit
or that your hands are swallowed
by your sleeves and mittens.
You don’t care that your boots
are stiff or that your hat is strapped tight
below your chin
or that your nose is dripping,
but you’re enraged
that the snow is blocking
the sidewalk,
your mittens now little purple fabric fists
because you can’t go for your
daily walk.
You trudge your body
forward—into the mound—sink.
Mama,
make this go away,
Mama.
You wave at the snow falling,
like it’s something different.
You even try to kiss it.
Emily Lacey lives in Danvers, Massachusetts. Her work appears in Evening Street Review, Medical Literary Messenger, The Broken Plate, and Freshwater.
