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Snow Angels (after Sandy Hook)


by Sarah McKinstry-Brown



 

The weatherman can't predict

accumulation. He can only tell you

it will be cold. Expect ice, wind, snow, expect

 

delays. Your daughters play outside,

dancing around the Evergreen, its branches

bearing the weight of snow, its branches

 

mirroring your shoulders as you try to move through the day's news.

 

Between bursts of laughter, the girls spread their arms

and free-fall backwards, flapping their limbs.

They stand up and take a quick look back at what they've made

 

before running toward the hill. They don't know

how the world has emptied; they don't know

 

how the echo of their small bodies breaks you.

 

 

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