Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Reversal at forty below

Shards split off
and fall away. This mewling thing
emerges, reddened,
bold and puffy, burned raw.

I'd step outside again
but for the fear
that winter's splintered grasp
will devour me, whole.

Burrow deep
into this nest of covers;
shiver at the prospect
of shearing away 
their velvet heat.

It's time, I think,
to be unborn again.


Rachel Westfall
January 6, 2015