SNOW SHOWERS EXPECTED
I make a Pantene snowman in my palm
and then squish it into my hair
like that time you ran over Frosty
with your Chevy truck.
The steam causes me to squint
as if I’d opened the dishwasher too soon
and I feel dense from the heat,
a sponge at its maximum sudsy capacity.
I lay down (as if that’s normal in the shower)
The water pricks my skin,
feeling more like needles then raindrops.
That was the kind of pain you inflected on me.
By the time the water has faded to cold
I can’t decipher tears from precipitation.
But I can remember the way my size 5 footprint
fit wholly into yours on the painted white backyard.
Maybe if it wouldn’t have melted
(Icicles shattering on the sidewalk)
or maybe if winters chill had never thawed,
We’d still be frozen in time.
I close my eyes and continue to soak
Replaying the day you evaporated
leaving only the snow you shoveled
which, like me, was pushed to the side and forgotten.