Of a Good Thing

There was an October 

when so much snow came 

down that it collapsed 

etchings on the sky 

before they could let go 

and power was out 

all over for a week 

everyone realized 

we’d have to cancel 

Halloween.

As if you can do that.

As if the trees should have known better.

Climbed my ladder 

up to the sun 

wrenched her down 

to what won’t slip away 

said the mechanic

who darkness-knew 

to ask why an antler 

tied to my rear rack 

for good luck guessing 

I was older when he fixed the flat 

head of cross-country.

I can do that, now.

Run away to find a hunter.

Make a perfect photograph 

to recognize a friend

from a lover 

who shows up to school 

sopping wet, 

covered in bruises, 

showered in concern 

for the memory of a family

that made my-compress-leap

a flying stretch.

I can see you there, still.

Hovering over me like a fire.

Long arc from my brother’s birthday 

is the season of terror 

when everything happens:

the deaths, the abuses, the trails of ink 

through the sky writing 

about everything I’ve ever felt 

released into the snow.

As if you can go back.

As if memory had its own weather.