Winter in New York

In a warm haze of hard seltzer
And cold takeout I snap a picture of Sol—
only four and plucking A’s and G’s
on a four-year-old-boy-sized cello—
and his mother holding the sheet music.
Cold lightless sky of new moon in Aquarius
watches us through the bay window.
I send the picture to Jake and say I want one.
A cello? he asks. No, a Sol. Because I know
I can’t say a baby. A son. Because I know
the winter that wears my bones like a wedding dress
will never thaw. Me too, he says. Someday. Me too.

Hayley Bowen
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