The Snowman.

It’s winter—and we’re walking
on a path where
there used to be leaves.

You point me in the direction
of where the car ran off, right there,
right behind a series of bushes

that look like birds,
the skeleton of a path
left over

beneath the trees.
A mailbox marks the place, red
with rust and old wind—old

with something more than it’s just the wind again,

and you begin to look too far north,
up over a hill that’s become
a glacier

to a boy that is
there—that is not there—in the


About mckenzielynntozan

McKenzie Lynn Tozan lives and writes in South Bend, Indiana, where she works as the Departmental Secretary of English and World Language Studies at Indiana University South Bend, and remains closely affiliated with 42 Miles Press, New Issues Poetry and Prose, and Wolfson Press. She previously received her MFA in Poetry from Western Michigan University, where she worked as the Layout and Design Editor for New Issues Poetry and Prose and as an Assistant Editor of Poetry for Third Coast. Her poems have appeared in Encore Magazine, Sleet Magazine, Rogue Agent, Thank You for Swallowing, Whale Road Review, The James Franco Review, The Birds We Piled Loosely, and Analecta; and her book reviews have appeared on her website and on The Rumpus. She lives with her husband, their daughter, and three cats. For more, visit View all posts by mckenzielynntozan

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