Untitled, Jenny Nguyen

The freezing plastic shovel bends 

at the handle as it penetrates 

bright red snow.

It screeches 

loudly as it scrapes 

pale pink matter 

off the road.

He flings it into the woods

he covers it in fresh snow

he buries you, 

the pieces of you 

the ambulance 

couldn’t carry away.

Starving animals 

that heard the gunshot

hours before stare hungrily

salivating for the life 

you threw away.

Their dark eyes pierce 

through him, threaten 

to spill his own mind

across the road.

He can’t turn away,

so he stands guard.

In the dark winter

he watches,

until the snow melts—
until the ground 

swallows you—

and there’s nothing left.

About the Author

Chelsea Anderson · University of Alaska Fairbanks

Chelsea Anderson lives in Alaska with her family where she studies English literature and creative writing at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. This piece first appeared in Ice Box.

About the Artist

Jenny Nyugen, University of California Los Angeles