Rachel Britton

Snow Child

For Mansour

every day you asked me which book was i reading:

decaf tea in a styrofoam cup,

i was walking dead

in this haunted mansion

of empty, coughing hallways. of child

cancer patients and half-eaten red gelatin.

you worked night shifts:

twelve hours black skies and snoring. but

you were the first face i saw in the morning;

reassurance my heart hadn’t killed me.

plastic scrambled eggs and orthostatic

measure—lay down, sit up, stand and

feel blood free fall from my head.

outside, leaves are falling

and i can’t see them.

today you will ask me which book i am reading

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Rachel Britton is a sophomore English (creative writing) major and theatre minor at SUNY Geneseo. She lives in Delmar, NY with her dog. When she isn’t writing you are likely to find her reading Thomas Hardy, listening to showtunes, drinking tea, and baking extravagant brownies for her friends.