On Route Seven, Before Harrowing
I drive east, because why the hell not.
The season’s turned, but snow still carpets
the shaded shoulder. Fallow field after
fallow field spills across the horizon,
like scenery on which plows sketch
possibility, defining before
and after. I am sick for security.
Are bread and peace a matter of chance?
Can I admit I fear the future,
that I’ve a head of carrion birds
ready for flight? In the radio’s static sound,
a voice breaks through near recollection
and I’m reminded of the friends I used
to call to hear say my name, lend me light,
to plant in me even a single seed.
Nick Snow is an MFA candidate at UMass Boston. Between homework and workwork, he strives to find time for his ownwork.