It’s January, another seventy-degree stunner,
when a neighborhood imports a “snow day”
for its children. A green field pumped with
manmade white. Kids sled down straw mountains
built with bales of hay. An elderly woman
waits with her granddaughter in the line
for a red wristband. She wants to know
how much to play in the snow. But she can’t
understand the man running the show.
“My grandma doesn’t speak English”
the girl says. The man explains: she needs
a neighborhood ID card. The girl, now given
the difficult task of translating the rules back.
They step to the side. The ice cream man
doesn’t require an ID. He takes her money
easily and gives the girl a bright Bomb Pop.
Her mouth fills with red, white, and blue ice.
The girl holds the woman’s worn hand,
so soft and warm. Red wristbands and hay
blow in the wind for weeks after, as the snow
hardens and melts into the thirsty grass.
–
Katie Kemple (she/her) is a poet whose work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Atlanta Review, Arc Poetry Magazine, Paterson Literary Review, Rattle, Rust + Moth, SOFTBLOW, and The South Carolina Review.