Andrea Krause

The weather forecast rescheduled the snow

so the road crew stamps gravel
into fresh laid tar, cars sink
indifferent galoshes, slashing criss cross

into bitter licorice, braided inky strands.
Let us hold on, bow our heads.
The lake beams with kerosene.

Carry ruby red awe, frostbite
and scars. Grip a dim paring knife, peel
your virgin goals, thumbs clumsy

into the wind. The smell of roots
is complicated anise. Spoon the soup
from outside in, don't

let ordinary hunger
scald your heart, hasty
all the way down.

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Andrea Krause (she/her) lives in Portland, Oregon with her family. Her work is published or forthcoming in: Maudlin House, Autofocus, Kissing Dynamite, Sledgehammer Lit and elsewhere. She nods along on Twitter at @PNWPoetryFog.