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,
At age six,
coming back from the pond
in the far field,
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.