husband

shredded from days the pastures

and cornfields and tending to sheep

you’ve landed in a big city

colder than you imagined

warmer than what you prepared for.

during the first snowfall

he told you every snowflake is different but in a blizzard

it covers you just the same.

you remember him saying that he felt like

drowning before meeting you

and now he feels like water

after all it’s been years after all you’re not

young anymore

he looks different from the pictures he sends

or through the frozen screen of countryside connection

but it doesn’t matter

because you kissed your daughter

on the cheek before coming

this far

he’s waiting

lying languidly on the field

covering himself in liquor, always another hour to kill

he’s waiting

with sticky palms whiskey on his breath a cheap haircut

for you to come home.

impenetrable, withered, like a boat made of felt

sailing through the polluted riverways

you trudge through the city

trying to hear the sound of birds

hitting water

Rachel Wan