Written by Allison Riechman-Bennett
Art by Allison Riechman-Bennett
The eyes can glaze a second death.
There is a stunted breath behind his teeth, seething harsh.
New snow, softened tread left and clothing stiffened in the drum.
There is a hushed freezing, but not from water to ice–
It is the crystalline flakes around a street light, taking in the wind, the sights, and the eyes peeking through a second story blind.
Thread the ribbon through my ribs
strike my chords and let leak my marrow.
The winter sun is the coldest promised warmth,
an embrace of chilled crisp.
I am learning not to dedicate to you,
an effeminate fable, a fib when the heart broaches a moment all too soon.