by Tucker Lieberman
Calling home to describe the snow to my mum
Helado. Cold like ice-cream
biting into your teeth, finding
that enamel-buried root,
prickling the nerves of your jaw.
I faced the wind and the wind faced me back,
my cheeks caressing the thinning particles
in the air. Mamá,
this is not the snowfall of ups
and downs you see on postcards; this is snow
liberated of mountains and valleys and houses and you;
this is me chasing the snowflakes before they collapse.
Because they will crumble, flank you,
stick to your clothes before dissolving
into a singularity of frost. I made
a snowman all the way
to the edge of my knees, its irregular roundness
corrugated by leaves and pebbles and twigs.
That carrot you told me to save
now points directly at my bedroom
window. I’m sorry I couldn’t find a top hat.
I’m sorry it’s so hot where you are.
I swallow the sprinkles
like ice-cream-coated invitations
of a new winter
away from home and my lips
kiss the snowflakes goodnight;
one for you, one for you twice.
Fran Fernández Arce (she/her) is a Chilean poet currently living on a farm in Suffolk, England. She enjoys writing poetry about art, language, and the weather outside her window. You can find her tweeting about her reading and writing as @dylanblue3.
Tucker Lieberman is the author of three nonfiction books and a bilingual poetry book. A sonnet was published in Animal Heart, and his short fiction is in STORGY. His photography has appeared on the covers of Crack the Spine, Ponder, and Nightingale & Sparrow. He lives in Bogotá, Colombia. www.tuckerlieberman.com Twitter: @tuckerlieberman.