Snow – by Paula Camacho
I call her Snow.
He brings her over to me in bed.
She is the child I miss
who used to jump on our plaid duvet
with sweet good mornings.
I do not remember
how many white cats I pass by.
One with one blue eye and one brown eye
looks at me like a hungry orphan.
Allergies prevent my embrace.
An ivory moon and earth do not collide
and even in this dream I wonder
what my children do
in the deep distant orbit of their future