we touched winter—
like magic, like love
slipping through fingers hot with
the chill
I felt the silent hollow—winter often
sounds that way, echoey & thick with
an odd emptiness
it sticks to lips
a trace of some
lost memory, childhood—rice paper
clutched to the ink blot brain
Rose water whispers, snugged in the
swirl of soft & hard edges, eddying
I watch the sky etch out
her turbulent spill—a pink cloud
grazing against the chest wall—a tingle
what were the words she keeps
shuddering into the drum
of a red ear
I know she speaks
I know she trembles
I know
But winter is so smooth
against this skin of mine
Even now
as I fall
YOU ARE READING
Ice on My Lashes
PoetryCan I give you words-the kind that sting & kiss, both at once. As does this storm, fiercely blowing at the leaves within your belly, green and supple to the tongue. Can I give you, what was torn, from my slaughtered gut? -The Cold Prose of Winter...
