That winter the ice
and froze my brother’s car to the side of the house.
And I crawled on my hands and knees
up the driveway, slid back three times before I got to the door.
The lights went out everywhere
and there was a birthday
where we stood around
with every candle burning
to a battery powered boom box.
We ate a brick dense
chocolate cake baked in the center
of a wood stove,
drank from a milk jug
in a Styrofoam cooler packed with snow.
And when we smoked on the porch
with just the moon for light,
we could see our laughter
it was so cold.
Zeke Russell grew up in Central Maine surrounded by artists and lumberjacks. Since then he’s been a cook, a teacher, a security guard and a social worker. He lives in South Boston with his partner Emily and PJ,the world’s worst behaved pug dog. He does his best to try to end homelessness, writes poems, and usually needs a haircut.