Jen Hallaman

when we move to a flat place 

the house smells like wet paint
                                                                        walls pink like tender bruises
suburban silence echoes like steel off
                                                                        clean marble countertops cool as
ice slicking the cul-de-sac
                                                                        an endless loop of white aluminum siding
the nearest hill is thirty minutes north
                                                                        here, minutes seem like hours
so Dad hitches a sled to his bike, flying us
                                                                        slow then fast then
round a world where
                                                                        snow buries any last grain of hope &
all the houses look like ours til we scream
                                                                        i wonder who can live in this stark place
isn’t til later we hate how
                                                                        he picked it knowing
everything is white
                                                                        it will siphon us empty like
the snow the roads the trees                           
                                                                        the people inside the houses

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Jen Hallaman lives in Northeast Ohio with her family. She works at a local independent bookstore, where she spends her lunch break writing poems. Her work appears or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Roanoke Review, Sierra Nevada Review and others. Find her at www.jenhallaman.com.