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So we shoveled it. Climbed over it.
When a boy's loved he is loved.

We kissed him at the countdown.
Then we went to bed.

Then I woke and on the screen
an executioner's wife for him was worried.

Both on and off the screen,
there was still a lot of snow.

I went out and stuck my hand in it,
felt around for a handle. None.

So I picked myself up and walked to the bank.
Does it seem

to you I am alone? Guesses may enter. In coats or
shyly. No, not alone. Not


The wind was a friend. Dining
and down. I bent over,

I listened to the flow.
Home, yes

but leaving. Home, sure, fine,
but, where's the bathroom?

Where's the light? Anyway,
the soft-swell said, lisping its S's

Anyway, if you're at home here,
you're a guest. So I bowed.

I said, I'm sorry to have bored you.
Broad, the river jello-d in a thud

of sun.
I climbed aboard,

I rowed. (For a guest will often
take the oars when urged.)

A border flew open like a cough.

I never paused, I never looked up.

I leaned back to balance
my enormous brown tongues as they dipped

to green and red
furrows of light between wet-mounds.

My boat rocked, steady
un-steady. Was I welcomed?

It seemed I was as I gripped and privately

The night soon lost its head. I said,
Ah. I'm here. Pulling up now,

parking, as it were,
looking for something to eat,

to redeem.

The wind shook the seedpod
but the seedpod wasn't moved.

And though I thought I'd done
the damage I was born for,

there was still so much to step through,
so much to mar.

—Julie Carr



Julie Carr is a doctoral student at University of California, Berkeley. Her poems have recently appeared in Epoch, TriQuarterly, and Seneca Review.

Originally published in the April/May 2002 issue of Boston Review

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