Exposed To Frost Bite | A Poem

 

The frost is winding his way down from the rock hewn soil of nearby mountain peaks.

In my free time I shiver despite the downy coat I've wrapped myself in. 

I imagine that my mother could afford snow boots in time for winter

But she's in the kitchen counting grams of sugar as if they're nickels and quarters 

mumbling prayers under her breath like a woman gossiping over hors d'oeuvres.

Im wishing for snow to be silently ushered in with the collapsing shift of early nightfall

That way I could just retrace my footprints in day old wilted snow

But see,

That's me fooling myself with the romanticized delusion that I could actually walk away.

The mop head was dirty and vinegar assaulted my face with bitter contempt.

So I repeatedly strained out all reason til it was easy to convince myself that I had something called choice.

The wood stove glows in fluorescent low light of winters lengthening shadow,

Twenty failed matches ignite and vanish with the shallow compliments I hear

And I find myself wanting to say that cavemen started fires with less.

I'm splitting wood with a dull ax and my father says my bleeding hands will make me tough.

He's somewhere complacent. Maybe slunked into the hollowed out core of a folding chair perched stoically in an empty hay loft.

And now the frost is here. Reaching his hands out to us nestled warm in our beds.

Fingers spiraling their way up our homes cracking foundation like snakes chasing warmth.

As our lungs rehearse a synchronized dance

Our breath reveals his unseen face where he hovers like a starved ghost

Ice dripping from his tongue in pleasure, he whispers a final goodnight.