The morning after the first snow
I wake up with an orchard of glass
lodged in the back of my throat.

Winter has come early—
the kind of chill that burrows
into memory & stays there.

I lie in bed all day,
cocooning soft linen around me,

invite a boy over and lean
into the hollow thunder
our lips make when they collide.

Isn’t this how it always is,
the soft distortion of morning light
undressing the night’s mistakes,

the hum of the radiator
a channel tuned to static.