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.
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.