January, we needed snow to fall general in this country,
she thinks, not as a call to purity—that’s juvenile
Snowflakes in lieu of her swirling thoughts—
Snow came south, diffident, not caring where it landed—
At the convention they raised signs for detention camps—
Now it’s everything all at once, and on which perfidy
should she concentrate like a pet cause, how much
of what happens to others can we bear this time, and
walking back and forth with the baby, she sings leftover
Christmas songs, watching those who come home in dark
follow the gold path their porchlights cast, and for
the stranger, searchlights in the yards, glare blocking sight,
and instead of white, the snow turns bottomless void,
and sick of Christmas, she switches to what winter lends
itself to—songs of love gone wrong, and the baby’s solid
warmth soothes—She thinks of what she taught that day,
the kids in her class roleplayed what they don’t legally
have to say to ICE and even the tough ones cried