Friday, October 5, 2012


When the snowman on the parking strip melts,
he shows himself to be mostly grit, 
tarry stones from the summer's repaving of the asphalt,
the toothpick stems and harsh confetti of the sycamore's broad notepad leaves,
the needle-points of seeds from the tree's exploded itchy bombs,
the weedy raffia of old grass.
The snow that's left of him is mostly jagged ice, 
clear pellets in a rough rim, 
the snow pack now pockmarked,
as if drilled through by worms.

You don't remember pushing so much debris into him
when you rolled his sections from one end of the strip to the other,
picking up each new layer like cotton batting.
You remember him being pure as the driven.
Not a conglomerate. Not a Frankenstein.
You don't remember including inside his flesh
such a mosaic of decay.

About Sian M. Jones:
Originally hailing from, and more suited for, the West and the West Coast, Sian M. Jones is currently stranded in sultry Maryland. Poetry seems to be her primary defense against the humidity. Her fiction was included in the Best New American Voices 2006, edited by Jane Smiley.

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