By Jennie Malboeuf
Within a week of seeing
seven stars in the moon’s
thick ring, it started to snow.
We are already weeks in,
snow deep in corners
and shade, refusing to leave.
At this point, it would be stupid
to call it quits. We finally drove
through town on what felt like
rails at the amusement park
last night — our own tin lizzy
machine. You sped round
the corner to gain momentum you said.
My mother said the worst winter
on record is still ’77 — the year
my brother was born. She drove
to the church in feet of ice just
to ensure a baptism, even
the priest scolded her.
Jennie Malboeuf is a native of Kentucky. Her work is forthcoming in Poet Lore, the Potomac Review, The Cortland Review, and Unsplendid, is currently featured on The Pinch, and has been published in the Southeast Review, Mid-American Review, Mississippi Review, and Columbia Poetry Review. She was recently awarded a Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Award, was a finalist for the Arts & Letters Rumi Prize, the Akron Poetry Prize, the Iowa Review Prize, and was shortlisted by the Missouri Review Editors’ Prizes. She lives in North Carolina and teaches writing at Guilford College.
