Victory

by Seth Abramson

When finally I conjured up God,
he was the snowman I’d built
on Strawberry Hill Road in March of 1983.
He was working a patch of dream
that had seen better days, but he was
working it hard. & as hard as he worked
he didn’t melt—

it’s heaven, I expect,
being colder than the cold.
He had nothing to say, anyway. But then
he handed me a piece of his shoulder,
& as it was melting in my hand
(of course)

I saw beneath it
was January of 1979, looking all walled off
like a snow globe. & there was me
inside it,
so I watched. With his other shoulder off
I could see the 1970s were the only thing
keeping his coat on.
He broke a leg to show me
the 1980s, & an arm to offer the 1990s up
in a hand with tiny twigs for the fingers.
& I watched me, & I watched me, & I

watched me. When he gave me his snowy
little heart I said what is it & he answered
today. & it didn’t melt,
& I wanted it to.
He seemed offended & asked me
whether or not I’d wanted to make it. I said
yes, but not this way.

 

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