by Katie Budris

Like the last day
I would see you. Smiling—

Wheels skidding on ice
as I push you from parking lot

to in-patient. Your hand
suddenly becomes a child’s

slipping out of its protective
mitten, palm catching

the flakes, twisting
with awe as if the air carries

radiation. Your eyes reflect
in icicles dangling

off doorways. I pause, there,
creeping up the sidewalk

despite bitter cold, try to memorize
your face, reborn, healed

by snow, so that later,
as I watch you die,

watch your breath become
ice, slowing, freezing, I

will remember you
like this. In wonder.

As if you know.
As if comforting me

in advance, saying—“Now, now.
There, there.”

Katie Budris holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Roosevelt University. She is currently a Lecturer in the Writing Arts Department at Rowan University and serves as Editor in Chief of Glassworks. Her poems have appeared in over a dozen journals, most recently From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), Outside In, Temenos, and the anthology Crossing Lines (Main Street Rag). Her debut chapbook, Prague in Synthetics, is available from Finishing Line Press. See more of her work at: www.katiebudris.com