I'll be right back. I'm going for help. I'll be right back.
Anthony runs his fingerprints along the trail, hoping to find the injured climber,
instead finding
dirty needle sticking out of
a spoiled vein imbedded
in composting tissue
instead finding
irises rotted years ago
after first hit after first
trick, when they rolled
up and back to see skull's inside
instead of
heavy breath of heavy man
perspiration fogging optical illusion
of a mom and a me, her
heavy beaded wedding dress
a glorious sleeping bag for a
tremulous seven year old.
Some premonition:
white-out behind
eye-whites
heavy
flakes
the size of infant's palms
swirling
around
the snowglobe
of her sunken sockets.
Baby Jane's
hands
not waving but
fists
fighting
mid-January
Manitoba
storm
screeching
obscenities
to a new mother before
whispering
fuck it
and wrapping up in yards
and yards
of snow.
Anthony puts the Narcan back in the lunchbox of lifesavers and shouts to the bus driver out the open apartment door. That true, what they say? How no two snowflakes ever the same?
