Backyard Mardi Gras Baby

On an errand
to the woodpile,
I, snow angel,
fell from grace,
slick-tripped
on ice-sheeted
green moss rock.

The wind froze.

You, Mardi Gras baby,
false-beaded cherub—
draped with cheap glass,
gold, purple, and green—
stood stone dead,
your unsmirked mouth
toneless gray.

Catherine Hamrick is a copywriter in the greater Atlanta area. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Blue Mountain Review, storySouth, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel: Appalachian Witness, The Ekphrastic Review, Sparks of Calliope, Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine, Willows Wept Review, and elsewhere. Find her online at https://randomstoryteller.com.

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