Carolyn Krieg   © 2013 All Rights Reserved

Ode to Older Cold


Snow falls faster in the past.

Take that last great extinction:
our globe a soft-boiled egg—
the speed of its shell cracking.
It’s the feel of tweed
spun from its loom just before the joints freeze.

Trapped in celluloid—projected—the fall hardly registers
before the splice, camera pan
to right, to the war, the kiss, the action.

Snow covers half my childhood.
It arrived in haste. It sank schooldays
on battery-operated radios,
storm shadows huddled electricity,
and windowsills succumbed often, and at speed.

Fresh fallen is too much, too likely,
for our slow aperture.
 

***

Netsuke III: Snake


What’s taken from you is possibility.
Your approach, the whisper at my ear,
the thrill of the chase, the knowledge
you could malice me with movement:
shed your skin with a toss of your head,
a twist where my hips would be.

 

Elizabyth Hiscox
Copyright © 2013  

Elizabyth A. Hiscox is the author of the chapbook Inventory from a One-Hour Room (Finishing Line Press). She is currently completing a PhD at Western Michigan University where she has served as Managing Editor for Third Coast and Layout Editor at New Issues Poetry & Prose Press.


Table of Contents            Next Poem            Guidelines