When it snows in a place it’s not supposed to snow

it rains in a place it’s not supposed to rain

I started to hurt in a place I’m not supposed to hurt

I held my body in a place I’m not supposed to hold my body

too often I forget what makes a blood moon bloody

that we are recipes cooking until we taste good

the way my grandmother keeps her recipes in a plastic box

the way they are pieces of fraying brown paper

always only yet to be stained

remember when people rented houses in that thin band

of America where an eclipse promised darkness

totally they said it felt otherworldly

the way that makes me search for what’s worldly:

filling a bathtub at the Slurpee machine

the way a fork in the road is a decision

remembering that a mountain is made

when it snows in a place it’s not supposed to snow