Cold makes a candelabra of my lungs at the opened window, blue on blue behind an unfurnished attic of trees— fretwork, winter’s glittering liens, & I’m a child at the dusked crest of Suicide Hill, snow scored with sled-tracks shadowed by the mirror of lost day, a blunt gold tare, low roof of sky. I touch one icy runner to my mouth, the salted socket of my shed tooth. At that bruising abyss I could not say what the world wanted from me, but I felt its hold. I knew my bones in their quilted swaths of wool, the stir of my jealous soul, unable to see herself, longing to disrobe.
Undressing Myself at the End of Autumn
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