In my dreams my uncle rides
the glacier like a surfboard,
arms wide open like a savior.
If he had lived, he might have
saved my childhood. He dismounts
the mountain, astonished to see me
no longer two years old and mittened,
hands hobbled by love. I’m sorry, I say.
We almost never speak of you.
It’s okay, he says. A snowman is a man
built of snow. A snow angel is made
by taking snow away.