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—