a swan stretches her neck
before looping her bill, a bright shovel
into the snow of her back like a man
walking into the horizon.
The hall is bright, absent of sound,
then snow beneath our crampons
makes the floor sing. A door cracks
open on its hinges, crashes.
In another room, a man turns
a corkscrew into the ground
hand over hand, head tucked
down and away in shame.
We walk for hours holding hands
through thick mittens, the walls
bare, white. We listen for our hearts
beating like geese.
There are tunnels
beneath us, wind wrinkles the surface,
snow serpents like water or a woman
waking to the sun’s glare.
We enter a room rimmed by pots
they fill and empty into the crisp air.
We are always moving. We don’t know
when we began whispering names
syllables escaping our mouths like fog,
spirits we hope would haunt us.
—
Jared Beloff is a teacher and poet who lives in Queens, NY with his wife and two daughters. You can find his work in Contrary Magazine, Rise Up Review, Barren Magazine, Bending Genres, The Shore and elsewhere. He is the editor of the Marvel inspired poetry anthology, Marvelous Verses. His work was nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize for 2021.
Photography by: Aaron Burden
