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.



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.



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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