Snow Child
For Mansour
every day you asked me which book was i reading:
decaf tea in a styrofoam cup,
i was walking dead
in this haunted mansion
of empty, coughing hallways. of child
cancer patients and half-eaten red gelatin.
you worked night shifts:
twelve hours black skies and snoring. but
you were the first face i saw in the morning;
reassurance my heart hadn’t killed me.
plastic scrambled eggs and orthostatic
measure—lay down, sit up, stand and
feel blood free fall from my head.
outside, leaves are falling
and i can’t see them.
today you will ask me which book i am reading
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Rachel Britton is a sophomore English (creative writing) major and theatre minor at SUNY Geneseo. She lives in Delmar, NY with her dog. When she isn’t writing you are likely to find her reading Thomas Hardy, listening to showtunes, drinking tea, and baking extravagant brownies for her friends.