So many people have gone.
My heart is full of them like cars
parked too close in a winter
driveway—when the plow picks a spot
and pushes all the snow into it.
I slide on ice trying to get to my car,
leaning my body on a trunk to slip
between two cars to the door, then sneak
a foot at a time across the doorjamb
to close myself inside.
Get in with me
and we’ll park in space together.
Bury your face in my neck
so your nose hits my chin.
Hide your hands on me to warm up.
We can wait until the lot clears,
radio on, or get out and walk.
It’s dark and cold now, packed
with snow, but there’s a pit
in the back there, ready for a fire.
Jenny Mary Brown’s work has been in Berkeley Poetry Review, PRISM, Harpur Palate, and DIAGRAM, among others. Jenny is proudly from New Jersey but lives in Arcata, California. She teaches at Cal Poly Humboldt and she works for a rock and roll band.