Silverton

Allison Adair

It doesn’t matter who answers
the phone, it’s the same forecast:
snow following snow,

road closed followed by Jessie
returning to John, wrist healed
and you can hardly tell anything

went wrong, until she waves hello.
Or is it goodbye. You know, this much
cold, this high, batters the eye

until all it sees is warmth. The girls
lining up crayons before dinner.
Coals orange as a daffodil’s trumpet.

So easy to forget tomorrow’s ash.
In a ghost town, bowls of thin soup
steam on every edge. Nothing

can hurt us. The pioneers. We forget why
we came—but look at that mountain.
Was anything ever so new?


Allison Adair’s recent poems appear or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Best New Poets 2015, Boston Review, Los Angeles Review, Mid-American Review, Mississippi Review, Missouri Review (Poem of the Week), Shenandoah, Southwest Review and Third Coast, among other journals. Winner of the Fall 2015 Orlando Prize and the 2014 Fineline Competition, Adair teaches at Boston College and Grub Street.

Comments

  1. Carol Ciavonne says:

    I love this. And I know Silverton.

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