by Maureen Jivani
Late December, and the frost is icing the gutters. At number seven a radio plays "Blue Christmas;" a lip of moon grins at the scene. I see your silhouette, a glare of stars and artificial snow against the panes. You, the boy whose voice I could never hear, who imprisoned himself inside the house, convinced the road might swallow him, or leave him scarred, that the frost would never soften. Dan, every winter I remember this. All my snowmen I name after you.
Maureen Jivani writes poetry and short fiction. She has an Mphil in Writing from The University of Glamorgan and has published online at Nthposition, Qarrtsiluni, and Retort. Her work has appeared in print in many UK literary magazines and journals including The Wolf, The Rialto, and Magma.