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New Year's Day
The snow filled in his bootprints
like hooves in a sandstorm. My gramma forming
a fist forming a ball of packed snow
in memory. One hand cover,
one hand cup. Crunched a hard missile.
I pushed the little Sisyphus into something big.
Those years you believe
yourself in love have rare magic.
Snow melts as it must
to a soft grudge. And the prints gone.
And the man those prints made.
Powder of salts on concrete,
hardwood. Gramma leaving gloves
on the radiator. My dad said
there’s no suffering in whatever
Will Russo received his MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2020. This year, his work has appeared in The Brooklyn Review, MAYDAY, and Annulet. He is poetry editor at Great Lakes Review. You can find him at willrusso.com.
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