Christine Stroud

You Called the Night It Snowed in April

You called the night it snowed in April.
I squeezed out of the dinner party,
slumped behind the wheel
of Molly’s car and listened. Harshly,

you squeezed the dinner party
from my mind. Delicate white flakes fell
on Molly’s car and glistened. Harshly,
the wind blew the idea of warmth and eating well

from my mind. Delicate white flakes fell.
“Are you in a safe place?” I asked.
The wind blew. The idea of you warm and well
in the shelter near Leicester passed,

“Are you at a bar?” I asked.
You remind me you can’t drink
in the shelter near Leicester. The past,
an unbreakable chain, links

me to you. “You shouldn’t drink.”
But in the dim bar you will shoot cheap whiskey.
There is an unbreakable chain which links
you to me and light brown liquor. From the shitty,

dim bar where you shoot cheap whiskey
you called. It snowed that night in April.
You drank light brown liquor. I felt shitty
and slumped farther down behind the wheel.

Christine Stroud is currently a candidate for an MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University and works as an Assistant Editor for Autumn House Press. She lives in Pittsburgh with her boyfriend and two cats.