Schlumbergera Truncata

The crab cactus weeps near the window
At the the sight the first good snow

That it couldn’t share with you. It spills from its
Elevated clay pot, that must be older than me,

Each segment a chain link rusted green.
Patina contrasting pinkish petals who point

Pistols at the white blanketed front porch,
Drawing for the first time in years.

A subtropical plant blooms in a frost.
Is it ironic or beautiful?

Moments like this are dust
Suspended in the sunlight.

No matter how hard I try,
I can never grab them from their drift.

Waterlogged Clogs

Leaving again,
I step into the too-warm January rain
That washed away the snow from two days ago.

I haven’t seen snow since
I still thought you would beat it. Its weird
Because I still don’t think you lost.
Snow turns to water when it melts.

Winter was always your favorite season,
Something about noses running from the cold air
And cloudy breaths bringing snow showers.

I see your lichen-covered chair facing the yard,
Clogs positioned just in front, untouched from when
You left them for hospitals and hospice.
Drawn towards the shrine, I shuffle through
The sinking lawn of my childhood.

Your clogs are filled by the rain and
The water marked by my reflection.

Merry Christmas

No snow. It’s in the high forties,
And the last time it snowed on the

Twenty-fifth, there were more people
In this house. The fire burned,

Embers flickering to ash.
I would sit and watch. Now, I sit

At the head of a table that’s
Too big for the few of us left.

I had to sit at the folding table years ago.
Now my sister and I fold our heads,

Praying for God knows what.

The Rain

It feels like its rained every day this winter,
Saturating the ground so much that
Brown puddles drown the grass
Because the soil can’t process it all.

This is the first time that I’m sitting around
Thinking about it. What is there not to get?
I guess everything, because it is all so confusing.

I’ve spent too much time in science to accept anything
Without evidence, but my mind drifts beyond the threshold
Of rationale, and I find the cold unknown feels kind of nice.

In a realm no longer restricted by the rules
Of earthly knowledge, I must embrace
What feels best, the location that warms me the most.
I sit in a red recliner and lounge in the winter sun

That shines without a cloud in the sky. Despite
The sub-freezing temperatures outside, I close
My eyes and lie on the beach in July.
I can see my father in his black speedo that he

Would reveal from under his swim trunks
When he wanted to tease the too-uptight teenage me.
When I drift into the unknown, he’s always there.
Through the nebula of uncertainty, he is no longer restricted,

Living in everything that makes me think of him,
Like all of these damn rainy days that have come this winter.

---

Gabriel Lancaster-Dixon is a biology major at Amherst College who aspires to be an oncologist. A not-so-fortuitous series of events brought him to poetry, and he is now dedicated to improving his craft.