Lit, Lit Poetry

Sand in Snow by Rowe Carenen Copeland

Snow sifts outside my loft’s
window, and I watch
sipping chai tea with almond milk
wearing the Hobbit slippers he gave me.

I ugly cried all morning
looking at wedding pictures
where the “us” we were
was clearly captured in tilted
heads and smiled whispers.

We had hope, then, before
ghosts took over and all
was lost in routine and common
place conversations.

He disappeared, depressed,
despondent in a room filled
with a child’s memories.

And I, I became a fixer,
a worker, a mother, no longer
a wife or partner.

So I sit as the flakes stick
to industrial roof tops
and the train wakes the cat
from her nap, and try not
to call him.