The Interior Paramour sends a telegram, sinks a time capsule, sings

by Sasha West

The white for months and nothing else in all directions
If Russia, pulled by horses we are dragged across the snow

Slowly every friend I know introduces themselves to cancer
If a globe, we are in the bright red house buried by snow

To have wanted nothing more than to wake to you each morning
If a gully, the river runs uselessly deep under snow

A summer of going box to box believing cold was hidden somewhere
If sunlight, to want the clarity of living in the snow

When you told me to leave, I remained standing in your doorway
If an epic, we watch the earth burn; ash falls weightlessly on snow


About the Author

Sasha West’s poems have appeared in Ninth Letter, The Laurel Review, Forklift, Ohio, Third Coast, The Journal, Born, and elsewhere. She lives in Austin, Texas.