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.