These icy fingers in my hair
remind me just of you, my dear –
tangling and untangling
and brushing against my cheek,
and stealing the opaque breath
from my markless and unwilling mouth.
I’ll turn to you someday,
as frigid as this month unnamed,
and you will feel the bite of my teeth
against your warm and waiting lip –
cold white daggers sheathed in brazen blue
at your soft, soft neck; you, my captive queen.
I’ll prick your shoulders with my touch,
frozen with the chill I’d welcome now;
shiver down your bones with my embrace,
as the kiss of a dead bird’s wing
brushing along your hand and face
becomes the bitter air clotting in your lungs
as my fingers close around your throat.
I’m the curve in the cry of a siren tonight,
nibbling on your ear,
the snow-angel in the field unfettered by footprints,
sprawled in the sheets of your empty bed.
I’m the sharp and shiny blade
that nature forges in the coldest nights.
Maybe in the spring, when the waters thaw
and run along the curbs and gutters,
dragging up both bright and broken things
buried by the weather’s whims –
maybe then you’ll go to turn to me
and look frantically for my frostbitten frame,
to find it curled quietly in the place
where I laid it in the cold alone.