First Snow
       

My friend said the first snow always felt
immaculate—she couldn't wait to play in it.

But she didn't grow up near a highway where
any accumulation turned gray before your eyes.

And she didn't have a father like mine, a man raised
by his mother's images of the worst catastrophes.

How can I forget those warnings he gave me
throughout my childhood never to eat it,

the way he forbade me to play in anyone else's yard,
told me that snow, no matter how inviting,

could be hiding something—
a broken beer bottle, a rake left on a lawn, a sinkhole.

Like those irresistible phrases my ex piled on—
how beautiful my eyes, my hair,

how much he loved, he said, to contemplate
my body. I should have suspected something

sharp and dangerous
below that gleaming landscape.

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Copyright © 2018 Andrea Hollander All rights reserved
from Blue Mistaken for Sky
Autumn House Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission