By Glen Armstrong

Bones of snow.

Seem to float within her.

A horse and carriage makes its way.

Through her wintery mood.

The night would be beautiful.

If not for this grave mission.

And nothing I say.

Seems to console her.

Curtesy and customer service.

Intermingle.

 

I answer her phone.

And the caller declines my offer.

To relay a message.

We press on through the still.

We still need time.

I’ve got nothing.

I put on a pot of turkey soup.

And bring it to a simmer.

There are still some flecks.

Of bone in the broth.

 

Bio:

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry NorthwestConduit and Cloudbank.

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