by Sarah Dickenson Snyder

On the cusp of summer
the snow looks weary, reluctant. 

We have gone
over a cliff’s edge

like the dream I had last night,
my car veering off the road, 

almost too frightening
to write down. 

My mind swerves away
as I wish the car had, 

wish the world had,
wish we had a Greek Chorus 

to guide us in unison.
A voice. A compass. Aeneas. 

I want the simple texture
of living, something to touch— 

that soft red velvet my mother
stitched into a dress.

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Sarah Dickenson Snyder has three poetry collections: The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (2018), and With a Polaroid Camera (2019). Recently, poems have also appeared in The Sewanee Review.