by Erin Hoover
|I shield my eyes with my arm and drive
to the hospital. An inch or two of snow
fallen each of these last nights.Unable to melt at four below, it reels again
over the landscape, polishing the hills
to white glass, so they don’t reflect lightso much as shove it back at the sun.
On her deathbed, the woman
who bequeathed me the blue carveof my eye sockets. Last night on the train,
I watched people towel dry dishes
through their windows, shovel single-file
paths in the snow. The wilderness
cannot be there, or there, here. Not even
“Peter and the Wolf,” cadre of French horns
in the car CD player, turning to shorthand
like a ship at sea. It is her turn—as though
and stupid march. A valve calcified
this much and still live? I have no answer.
Erin Hoover is a poet living in Tallahassee, Florida and a Ph.D. student in Florida State University’s Creative Writing Program. Erin has writing published or forthcoming in SPECS, Division Leap, The Nervous Breakdown, and Spry. Erin is also the founder and former co-director of Late Night Library, a nonprofit organization dedicated to promoting writers early in their careers.