Snow chews up the sky,

Jennifer Durnall '24

 

and her leering eyes, for a moment, for a split in time,

Eyes, that had once shivered to the vibration,

of a thumping diesel engine, Eyes,

that were suffocated by time,

woke up.

Fired off from the fizzle of a dynamite stick,

twisting knots of nerve cells and blood vessels

in soft tissue, come undone.

She could see me, and she would know who I am.


But that was it. Suddenly,

the swarming disease encapsulated its headquarters.

Each pale knob of her finger,

cunning to the bone,

robotically, curled to a ball once again.


She stared through me like staring through the

frosted glass of a window

on a snowy, Sunday morning,

squinting, seeing only a reflection in her eyes,

“Who am I?”