The day after tomorrow

you write to me
of blowing snow and whiteouts.
of snow goggles and skating rinks
you tell me your cat may need clothing
and you joke about
living in the movie
‘the day after tomorrow’

I write to you
of scorching sun and blackouts.
of checkpoints and closed roads
of a play I went to see
called ‘between the devil and the deep blue sea’

You ask for news of home.
have you forgotten that
over here, no news is good news
or have black memories buried themselves
under white snowflakes

you say it is freezing there. again. You had to dig out your new car
from underneath
a mountain of snow this morning.

It’s burning here. still.  this morning old women
and new babies were dug out
from underneath
mounds of mangled metal

you say everything there is predictable. I …

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