Snow Child
She feeds the snow child radishes,
watches her shrink away from their fiery
skins until she slices them: slivers of crisp
white petals rimmed with pink. The child
squinches at the pepperiness, asks for more.
When the radishes are gone, the woman
pulls hoary cauliflower from the root cellar,
roasts it in cast iron for the snow child
who devours the ashen florets
as though they were spun sugar.
When the cache is empty and snowdrops
mourn the fading frost, the child kisses
the woman’s wet cheek. The warmth
stings her pallid lips, reminds her
of radishes she will eat again next winter.
Shelly Jones, PhD is an Associate Professor of English at SUNY Delhi, where she teaches classes in mythology, fairy tales, and writing. Her speculative work can be found in Podcastle, The Future Fire, New Myths, and more. She is an active nerd who enjoys board games, being outdoorsy, and knitting.
To continue enjoying poems like this one and support our writers, please consider donating to Silver Apples Magazine.