​​H E R M E N E U T I C   C H A O S   J O U R N A L

​ANNA MEISTER



It snowed too early


That year, all of us still 

dressed in our costumes, coming down 
from the sour drip, the glowing hour of wanting 

​to lie on a sheepskin rug endlessly. Trees
in orange robes weighed down 
until inevitable snap, branches breaking 

​through glass. Heads 
in hands in silence. The darkness kept 
for days, candles left burning 

​until wax covered wine bottles 
completely. I shivered in my fur while they laughed 
like sparks. Groceries rotted quickly 

​in the fridge. Connecticut was closest 
gas could be found. I kept driving 
through the desire to leave everything 

​with the engine light on, same color 
as the now gone season, Philadelphia 
in the distance red as my hands. He was waiting 

with blueberries where we holed up. 
Classes cancelled through the week due to weather 
felt like something answered 

​though I won’t say prayer. I wished to be nowhere 
different. We took turns pressing hands 
to my belly in his small room, dreaming up names to share 

before trailing off. We didn’t want anything 
to grow. I felt quiet as a puddle reflecting
swirled clouds, black feathers. What a home my body 

​couldn’t be. Three years now 
& I toast to how I keep forgetting it better
like my gut never will. When the dead turn 

​to birds or leaves, it gets easier 
to imagine. When the thing never comes 
​into being, there is so much space.














Anna Meister is an MFA candidate in Poetry at NYU. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in publications including Sugar House Review, BOAAT, Bodega, & Radar Poetry, where she was a finalist for the 2014 Coniston Prize. Anna is an editor at Mount Island Magazine, works with kindergarteners, & lives in Brooklyn.