By Maja Lukic

I track my own
Footsteps in the
Snow back to the
House. You stand
Waiting on the porch.

The snow falls
Quietly. Dark trees,
Naked branches
Thinning upward into
Flat silver skies.

A white chapel
Fades into white air.
Orange lights glow
In the steeple. A
Quiet trepidation of
Crosses and icons.

I could sleep here
In these snowy banks.
Light me a candle,
And abandon your
Ancestral violence.

History recedes into
Meaningless epochs.
My grandfather built
Gravestones and
Worked the railways
While your people
Hid their gold.

Darkness descends
In thin blue light.
But the house is
A distance yet.
And only steps
In the snow to
Follow back.

lukicMaja Lukic is an attorney and writer in New York City.

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