The Language of Wood

In the firelight you say our arms are the same color
we place them closer to the flame
the snowfall outside reminds me of Brooklyn.

Through evening we watch as it buries the car
the constant swirl filling our eyes
like Christmas.

Somehow we belong here buried like the car
with only our breath to startle us
only some trees that creek like old doors.

In the firelight, we pray in the language of wood—

that no one will be able to find us.

Darryl Holmes received his MFA from Fairleigh Dickinson University where he served as an editorial reader for the university's international journal of contemporary writing, The Literary Review.