Jozie  Konczal

J o z i e   K o n c z a l

Almost Christmas

Asked me, why don’t you just spit

in his face? All I’d done was refuse

a cigarette on a night dying in South

Carolina winter like none of the insects

do. I don’t know how to breathe good

air into the mouth of a winter night like

I don’t know how I should have answered

him. We found the road ungraced by

snow or the eyes of a deer. I later decided

that here the seasons have met like something

unfamiliar, like slipping on stairs that belong

to you. If only the seasons could join like

children do for running games, then,

maybe I would wear my face.

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