could it snow
in memory of Jean Valentine, 1934-2020
could it snow a little less
quaintly? i wake & crave your unruly
dreamprints down a page.
5:30am: somehow my eyes are open
before the dog’s. still,
he’s busy, performing his ventriloquist
band of other animals: little pig snorts, big
goat bleats, medium cat mews. strange
soundtrack to a good memory: you,
after your reading, after i said it was not yet
but almost my birthday, you signed my book
with that date, then smiling, said,
poets can lie!
i lied:
the dog, in the morning, always rises
first. truth is, it’s only when he’s napping
that i hear his music. truth is,
it’s my boyfriend who first called it music,
who just earlier today said, he was playing his songs again,
all the greatest hits. so were you, by the way,
so loud & so right
into my face, i had to roll you over.
truth is, that has happened many times.
truth: it’s 5:30pm, it’s snowing
& i’ve been hoping this true happening
is you. i want to hear your sound
inside the snow’s species
of saying. i want to lie & say
i hear you
singdreaming
right into my ear.
but i don’t. no. & that’s not
what you meant by poets
lying. i’m not sure you meant anything
more than something
that would make me smile, too.
that does.
i like to think you meant: remember
this is a gift—this wondering
work. give strange
care to such weather.
please
give me another poem. no, more love. no, another
love poem. no, knowledge
as to which is the better
torment: the desire for words
or the desire for connection
but what do i even mean by better—
greater?
lesser?
my artist friend comes back from his studio & says,
you have to have multiple
spirals, not just one, multiple makes them
more manageable spirals
& i say, yes,
though i know he means ones that are ultimately
one, spirals that are all tunnels to art—
though i know he must also experience,
at times, in his own ways, spiraling
outside the studio, in the snow,
along with the snow
& the wind,
to the point where it’s unclear, despite how much
anyone knows,
it’s unknown whether it’s the wind
pushing the snow in your face
or the snow driving itself
or your face,
twisted, twisting, unmanaged,
unmanageable, your own face making
this weather you want to walk out of
while walking deeper into
About the Author
Chen Chen is the author of the poetry collection, Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency (BOA Editions, 2022) and the forthcoming book of essays, In Cahoots with the Rabbit God (Noemi Press, 2024). His debut book of poems, When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities (BOA Editions, 2017), was longlisted for the National Book Award and won the Thom Gunn Award, among other honors. He teaches for the low-residency MFA programs at New England College and Stonecoast.
