by Gary Percesepe

I screamed from my bedroom window

at the lake below but the snows came anyway.

No one in Buffalo took them seriously.

The city was silent under its constant cover


and then, through your thin black blouse

I touched a body shockingly alive, so eager

it frightened me and I began to think it was

part of me, although I was wrong again


and though we parted that spring the roads

kept freezing and thawing between snows

until the weak sun wakened me and I realized

our love had made me thinner. Weeks later


I was in the hospital with an overnight bag

and tried to jump out of a windowless room

but knew better than to call. I knew you

wouldn't come. In the morning I was hungry.


The morning was bright & wrong.