We met on snow bright summits,
my world and his world bridged
just by the tips of our tongues. I shed

my snowsuit galoshing
through moon-white mountain banks, desire dripping
down my lips—a crimson trail to

follow. Calling the Yeti a discovery
is too clinical. I’m not some scientist
tinkering with taxonomies, or a sherpa
shepherding lust on its monstrous leash,
But a boy, alien, desperate for touch, suddenly
warmed. My leg fur and his chest fur clumped

into some Gossamer beast, my arms making angels
in the snow between his legs
until he was just some soft and melted thing.

Forgive me the words snowballed
between our teeth. Forgive me the heat of friction
from a fucking as frenzied as fire, and forgive
the hours I spent basking in your body
long after it turned to slush, shivering
in yesterday’s puddles, hoping I will

become the snow.
Stuck beneath a sun blank sky,
I can’t climb down from memory,
knowing down there is where we’re not—
you’re not—
meant to be.

Sean Glatch is a queer poet and educator in New York City. His work has appeared in 8 Poems, L’Ephemere Review, Rising Phoenix Press, and The Poetry Annals. Sean currently runs Writers.com, the oldest writing school on the internet.

Sean tweets at @glatchkeykid.