Snowy Sunday 

I lost my heart somewhere between my shoulder 

and my watch, in the stitching of my sweater’s wool, 

I only feel it when I raise my hand to speak or grab. 

 

Like a splinter, it only speaks to warn me of its presence—

so much of being alive is understanding the language of inanimate

objects: clocks tick in Morse Code, rain falls in Braille when

 

collecting on my windshield, and the dryer uses the pennies left over

in my pants pockets to typewrite my inattention to detail. If God be anything, 

for heaven’s sake, be a porch light— be a train track, be my parent’s mailbox—

 

be visible from my bedroom window. I hope to one day, when the weather

is much less gray, open up the window, and breathe in the same air

as God and mail and tracks that guide trains through the fog. 

Cody was born in a small town located in southwest Oklahoma. He attended Oklahoma State University where he graduated with a BA in English Creative Writing and served as an editor for their literary magazine The Frontier Mosaic. His poems have the tendency to resonate on small town ideologies and stillness within chaos.

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