by Kate Lebo
Grass burns with the backward heat
of snow. The street a white flag
unfurled as far as my eye knows.
Surrender, as it comes, comes
zipped in pillow feathers,
in sheepskin. Its animal suit
tracks prints across the lawn.
Beyond the bend all banks are blank,
all blanks are blankets,
which makes a bank of snow
a sort of bed.
All day your boots run down my steps
while sleds ditch kids
and carry on.
My small yard is bloomless
where I haven’t left the house in days,
a perfection I could angel in,
admit to my clothes and lie still
as snow melts the path
your mouth made of my neck
an hour ago.
Kate Lebo’s poems appear in Best New Poets 2011, Poetry Northwest, Hot Metal Bridge, Bateau, and elsewhere. She is an editor of the handmade literary journal Filter and recipient of a Nelson Bentley Fellowship, a Joan Grayston Prize, a 4Culture grant, and a Soapstone residency. An award-winning pie maker and author of the bestselling zine A Commonplace Book of Pie, Kate hosts a semi-regular semi-secret social called Pie Stand. (9/2012)