2 March 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 1

Meditations in Desert Snow

by JOSHUA POTEAT

Snow, Snow, I'm in love with the dead,

              with this white and broken air—

Without stars there is nothing to keep you

              from slowing the sky.

So, what remains?

                                  —

Calamus of a raven—rachis, unkindness—

              asleep in the wind,

in the inexplicable nest of exile,

the sheen of ice on its back

              remains a constellation

of its own body.

                                  —

Cuneiformed footprints of ravens in snow

              mimic their flight—mimic the bend of night-reeds.

                                  —

Snow, you are the spilled milk of the dead,

              the silk of muscle draped over this tenement

of bones, the last nothingness the desert

folds into its arms before it sleeps.

                                  —

Morning will transfigure the land,

              will melt down to nothing again.

                                  —

Winter begins—in the Mission,

              the tourists are pinning prayers

to the reclining saint's blanket:

                                  —

Honor and grace for the Air National Guard

              because Lord, I need this.

                                  —

Autumn ends—the dark hair of a woman

              ribboning the wind. Holy Virgin of Sorrows,

Holy Mother of Refuge,

              tear these plasters from my eyes.

                                  —

There is no autumn here. What remains?

              Silk cassock, rose galloon, ten hunks of salt.

                                  —

In silence and for silence,

              the snow doesn't say

what I don't want to hear.

Mea culpa, mea culpa—

              ravens forgiving the thick air.