Winter Radio

I don’t want to compose a song
until it comes bursting out of me,
not a throwaway draft,
a sorry station for a pencil
or microphone.

But living in this snowglobe
has been so very clean,
a microcosm scene –
friends laughing, red hair
and peanut shells.

Snow falling like diamonds
for young brides, like soap
shaved for our vulgar tongues.
Everything is covered in

Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who is unapologetically raw. Follow her work on Twitter: @apoetrybomb.

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