theories of gravity

when buried beneath a snowstorm
you lose sense of every direction
except desperation. in darkness sometimes
trying to dig your way out you end
up burying yourself even deeper
becoming an epitaph on your own
struggle, a tldr made flesh.

i’ve never really seen real snow
but i still suffocate whenever
it’s newly cold. it is said i should lie
down bellyfirst and let someone drum
soft taps onto my back and sides, drink
warm milk with turmeric daily and have
a spoonful of honey with powdered pepper
every night. but i make do with an inhaler
a tub of vicks vaporub and a bad joke.

when buried under snow, it is said
dig a little and then spit— if it falls
on your face you’re moving
in the right direction. the bad joke?
when she asks me why do you still
use the inhaler i could say because
you’re still breathtaking. i remember
watching the revenant which had lots
of harsh snow but also a tender line
in pawnee that kept flashing across
dicaprio’s grizzly-mauled mind—
when there is a storm… and you
stand in front of a tree… if you look
at its branches, you swear it will fall
but if you watch the trunk, you will
see its strength.

while digging your way out of that darkness
forget the spit on your face and the fact
that you’ve lost your goggles— as soon as you
surface the swirling prisms of the snowstorm
will blind you. i’ve seen enough
clips of snow to know small snowballs
don’t roll into big ones like we’re shown
in cartoons— they become some vaguely
wobbling wheel. what does that say
of the way we teach our kids
about consequences? i’ve never seen
real snow, let alone be buried in it
but i still have spit on my face.

what does that say about the way
we keep ourselves warm?
what does that say about you
taking my breath away?