Anthony Opal


moments when G-d seems hollow she’s a bowl
of caesuras between the shifting snow
flakes and flakes off the monochrome face
(choral music’s evidence of silence)
she allows some snow to gather in her hair
standing there below glass-bulbed Christmas lights
the moon on fire the bottom of the flame
becoming bluer and colder inverting
the expected is quoted through winter
in the language of a small bird’s footprints
leading us closer to frozen forests
under the stars scars like wounded spirits
the landscape more naked than ever dressed

Anthony Opal lives near Chicago and edits The Economy. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry, Boston Review, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. To read more, visit