All
the frigid Sunday mornings
in
the month of no-mercy
are
avoided by everyone,
whipping,
agitated sighs
lick
my burning, porcelain eyes.
Ice
sculpture trees line the path
of
my journey and memories of fertile spring
prove
powerless against a midnight blizzard.
The
emptiness of my shelter and harshness
of
nature kindles a small hole of grief
for
all my buried loves,
making
my black, lumpy blood
sink
deeper into sullen, weathered veins.
But
you see, on this wonderfully dreary Sunday
I
rescued a furry tabby from the tundra
and
when its’ owner came to collect--
naturally,
I took her in,
on
mutual grounds, of course
until
I spiked her tea
and
tied her to the chair
where
she had willingly sat,
gagged
and bound
in
her puffy white coat.
The
sweetest rubber boots
encasing
her delicate feet
squealed
as she wriggled,
dancing
on four legs in the middle
of
my dimly lit room.
I
wasn’t going to keep her long,
just
until the stake of loneliness stopped twisting
but she never woke up.
Now,
I am truly trapped in this winter
I’ve
found a space buried in the corner of my shelter,
to
hide away in a stiff-knee-huddle
until
the ground thaws.
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