Poetry by Emily Jahn
The river wasn’t frozen that night,
not yet, though it was snowing lightly
as I hurried along its concrete banks
through skyscrapers to catch the train
filled with silent passengers eyeing reflections
in dark windows. Chicago floated
over narrow depths in wavering ribbons
of gold, and the water was a kind of ink
I’d never seen before. It was grave,
and reverent, that first snow melting
into its uneasy surface — gone this time,
to be remembered in marble skin
a month later. But it was still November,
and the river was bursting with a thousand lights
as fervent and eager as an empty ballroom
while I caught the train, out of breath
and brushing the snow from my hair.
Emily Jahn is a Saint Paul-based poet, barista, and student teacher with degrees in Biology and Creative Writing from Northwestern University. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in The Banyan Review, Flare, Ligeia, and others.
Arcturus 