J V Birch
I have affairs with ice;
Branches sear my shoulders,
the fiery heart of it blasting
while the rest of my vertebrae
as if trying to escape the back draft.
rather than a question left hanging,
through spaces too tight,
that twist too far to bring
After just thirty nine years
who will beat me into submission
while I dream of a return to the womb
My husband asks how my day was.