Our breath is louder on the silence of snowfall,
but I can’t help missing the rain. Lately, I’ve curled
into the shape of his body until I’m formless, our sheets
clean but still hinting at the drunken puke from a couple
nights back. I don’t mind like I should. My mind keeps
wanting to refuse contradictions, the fact that this other
will never be part of self, no matter how many morning
coffees, split chores, stains on the bed. The snowflakes
coalesce on the grass, making, as Dickinson wrote,
an Even Face, of Mountain and of Plain, but these days
there’s more cement to get melted in. Lying down,
his cheekbone cuts too hard into my chest, and I try
not to stir, try not to make a character out of us.
Crystal Cox was born and raised in mid-Missouri. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Idaho. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Midwest Review, Midway Journal, Shō Poetry Journal, Phoebe, and elsewhere. She serves as co-editor for Outskirts Literary Journal.