Michael Simms: Satan and the Snowman
Many Christmases ago
I was in a toy store shopping
for my daughter when I saw
a man in his twenties, a store
employee, leaning toward
a shelf of snowmen dressed
in little top hats and plaid
scarves, and the young man said
quite distinctly HAIL SATAN
and all the snowmen repeated
HAIL SATAN. Startled I stepped
back, knocking over a display case
of Bikini Barbies. Then I saw a sign
above the young man’s head,
Mimicking Snowmen. Holy
Jesus I thought, what
has Christmas come to?
What have I come to,
trapped between
demonic Frosties
and anorexic Barbies?
*
When I was eight I was raped
by an older boy. It wasn’t
brutal, more seduction
than assault, but I bled
for days. As I grew up,
I remembered it rarely, as if
it was just one of those things
boys do. Maybe it was.
How would I know,
having led only one life?
But I know this: when
a boy buries a secret
he grows to be a man
who hurts others. It’s simple:
A heart that’s broken
breaks hearts. So I followed
a daisy chain of secret betrayals,
small thefts, rehearsed summaries
of the faults of my lovers,
perfectly timed accusations
and insincere reconciliations.
*
I don’t have relationships,
the old drunk explained
with surprising wisdom,
I take hostages.
To stay married
a man must forgive
his wife for loving him.
But why buy the cow
when manure is free? I think.
You can, as I did for many years,
drift from love to love as if
betrayal were the answer to longing
*
A man feeling unworthy of love
can’t enter his own house
so he stands in the front yard
hoping to gain the courage
to join his family. It is winter.
Snow is falling. Through
the front window he sees
the brightly decorated tree,
his wife and children
in front of the fireplace
and yet he can’t bring himself
to enter the warmth.
He finds if he stands still
and lets the snow fall on him,
he feels somewhat warmer.
He takes off his clothes and lets
his skin freeze. At last he’s warm.
The snow falls steadily covering
his head and shoulders,
arms and hands. His feet
lock in ice. His eyes, ears, nose
cake with snow. His joints stiffen.
His arms become crooked branches,
his eyes lumps of coal, his nose
a ridiculous carrot. He breathes snow
until his lungs are full. He eats snow
until his guts are solid with the stuff
His daughter comes out of the house
kindly wraps a plaid scarf
around his neck, balances a top hat
on the snowball of his head
How are you, Daddy? she asks
I’m fine he says. And he is. He’s fine.
From Nightjar by Michael Simms (Ragged Sky, 2021). Copyright 2021 Michael Simms.
Michael Simms is the founding editor of Vox Populi. His previous books include American Ash (Ragged Sky, 2020).
Vox Populi 
I really like it Michael!
Very fine!
Merry Christmas.
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It’s an incredible poem, Michael. Devastating, stunning in composition, excruciating yet redemptive just because of how clearly it sees and speaks — even though there is no redemption in the poem, reading it felt redemptive to me somehow. “Say it clearly and you make it beautiful no matter what,” as Bruce Weigl said (in a poem also dealing with his sexual abuse as a boy, interestingly enough.) I feel so much appreciation for you as a poet. Am glad to be getting to know you in this way.
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Thank you so much, Ruth. I think you know I’ve admired your poetry for many years, so your praise means so much to me.
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The direct, almost prosy syntax of this poem becomes the vehicle for ever more complex reader-responses. The poem’s four-part composition complicates the holiday season in ways at once surprising, appalling, and wise.
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Thank you, Lex. It’s rare that I actually learn something from a reader’s response to my work. I see why your students adore you.
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I read this poem yesterday just before sitting down to meditate for half an hour. I held an image of a grey stone, smooth, and very heavy. It was the author’s stone, but also mine and I assumed it would become a poem. In my walk after breakfast, I imagined it gaining pearly accretions, but they broke away from its smoothness and the stone remained, perhaps palm-sized, very heavy, hard, smooth, gray. It returned again today. I sit under a warm wool Tibetan blanket, but it remained cold and hard. I’ve scribbled thoughts in my notebook, but the stone is not yet ready to yield a poem. I have not read/watched today’s offering, but saw a comment here and hope for resolution. This sucker is heavy and I don’t think it is what they mean by weight-bearing exercise.
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Thank you so much for this, Barbara. Your image of the grey stone as the starting point of a poem is brilliant.
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This was a perfect pairing with the video about how sharing secrets sets us free. It releases the shame. Bought Nightjar as a Christmas gift – sure to pack a punch. Thanks to VP for being a safe space.
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Thanks, Pat!
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It’s a tough read, Michael. Thanks.
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Thanks, Mel. It was a hard one to write.
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Damn, Michael. That one hits hard.
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Thanks, Tony.
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