My First Protest – A Snow Angel

by Gerald Arthur Moore


The husks of wild grape remnants,
            vines clinging to a wire paddock fence;
grey posts wearing
            milk white bowler hats of snow,
like tiny drumlins of albino coal dust
            piled for a frigid hearth.

The winter after the barn caught fire,
            remember the ornate wicker angel
cresting our scotch-pine,
            my boomerang waiting underneath the boughs,
wrapped in
            Christmas tissue.

At age six,
            coming back from the pond
in the far field,
            windswept terra-firma;
deep drifts to smuggle my body through,
            pushing on, face stinging in the wind.

My older sister ahead,
            annoyed with my slow progress;
angry when I could not keep up
            in the burning cold,
complaining, and feeling deserted,
            I called out for her.

She now claims,
            as we sit round the kitchen table thirty years later,
that she was trying to inspire me
            when she called me a whining asshole.
I laid down defiantly in the snow,
            fanned my arms and legs,
and pissed in my snowsuit.

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