By Ryan Murray

We were snowed in back in February

hung hammocks from the ceiling of our greenhouse and played in the dirt

our neighbors shot off fireworks until the cops came

it was three in the morning—the cops left and they started up again.

I covered my face with a pillow and filled my ears with dirt.

The sun came.

Then the night and again we were snowed in.

It was Ben’s birthday.

He wanted a stomp rocket.

We gave him a jar of dirt with a note in it.

It was a gift certificate

for a stomp rocket.

It still snowed,

made my hair stand on end

and we’d sleep

and dream of green houses.

We’d wake up blind.

I’d look at you through yellow leaves,

you’d just stare at the floor.

Or at a bird made of pencil drawings.

Ben cried at his jar of dirt.

He didn’t find out what was inside

until he threw the jar on the wood planks—

jar shattering.