The white for months and nothing else in all directions
If Russia, pulled by horses we are dragged across the snow

Slowly every friend I know introduces themselves to cancer
If a globe, we are in the bright red house buried by snow

To have wanted nothing more than to wake to you each morning
If a gully, the river runs uselessly deep under snow

A summer of going box to box believing cold was hidden somewhere
If sunlight, to want the clarity of living in the snow

When you told me to leave, I remained standing in your doorway
If an epic, we watch the earth burn; ash falls weightlessly on snow


Bio: Sasha West’s poems have appeared in Ninth Letter, The Laurel Review, Forklift, Ohio, Third Coast, The Journal, Born, and elsewhere. She lives in Austin, Texas.

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