You meteor   through me still,
        plastic bag       over my head.
I swore I’d love myself or die.
       Dog toy, no noise.
       Garden under snow.
Someday     I’ll love this skin,
       the landmarks,  surgical scars, push
          out, out, damn bruise.
                            I’m fine. Just leave me
          a blowtorch,
        a marshmallow crown.
When I wore   your clothes, I looked
     always down. Sometimes now    I see
        snow  as it falls,    sometimes clouds.

Samuel Hovda was born and raised in rural Minnesota. He now attends the MA program in Creative Writing at the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire. His poems have appeared in Cleaver Magazine, Contrary Magazine, and elsewhere. You can find him at and on Twitter @SamuelHovda.