[Matt Q]

Snow

We start, as always, with the weather. Rain
her end, while here the snow falls fat and white,
a thing of wonder. Through the window pane,
the swirling flakes obscure the city night.

She can’t talk long, she says, or she’ll be late
to Sunday Mass. It’s Saturday, I say,
and look outside: it’s dark. Wait till it’s light.
Uncertain, she concedes the change of day,

and starts in on her list of things to ask:
how is my health? my partner? and my son?
She wears her easy questions like a mask.
I work to fill the space. The snow falls on.

My mother, anxious that she’s missing Mass,
hangs up the phone. I stand and watch the snow.
It’s childhood snow: the settling kind. The mess
beneath all covered up, at least for now.



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S4L1, capitalised "Mass".