Winter With Abraham Lincoln







We went sledding. I pulled plastic bags

over my feet before I stuffed them in my moon boots.

I wore mittens and a stocking hat. His beard was

a big black Viking ship as he slid down the hill,

holding the sides of the sled with clinched fingers.

He knocked my feet from under me and laughed

and said, “Sorry, I’ve never had such fun.”


We had hot chocolate later and he crossed his

bare feet in front of the fire. His pupils were leaks

in a ship’s hull. He looked like a boat floating

on a blue harbor. I said, “Is everything all right?

You look sad.” He said, “I have a dead child.”

I didn’t know what to say. Even now, I keep

filling his black hat with snow.

First published in MARGIE (now defunct)






Photo Source: Dynamic Marching

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About Author

Peter Davis' books of poems are Hitler's Mustache and Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! His next book, TINA, is forthcoming in 2013. more info at


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