In The Ice House

I shriek with
the wind,
and move swiftly
to shut the door.

I laugh at
myself in the padding
of this old, mad coat
in blue.

I come from a spinning world where
snowflakes are severed,
destined to melt where they
fall.

The fur that troubles my conscience,
I guess, is proud around my neck
in honour of foxes,
stopped short
of plucking feathers
from the air.

A hat keeps most warmth in,
which is a myth I like to believe.
How lovely a cosy mind would be
to cradle,
and sing to itself.

I’m combustible
on birthdays,
with years of jelly and cake vomit,
miraculous in creamy detail
and exhibited in orange fuss;
tissues thrust by relatives
when the embarrassment
catches fire
with concern for me.

Come to me,
you’ll have to, with my eyesight.
Near or far,
I’ll smother your face with damp embers
and, as if you are a mountain climber,
I’ll embrace you with cocoa
in the tinfoil of an alien.

When it is winter,
the wardrobe holds it’s own innards,
to keep inside an outburst of
old-fashioned splinters.

And my spirit and body
dials between stations
of virgin inexperience
crossing signals and voices.

My hunted deer
lamented in a happy song
with hooves dancing
the upset cloth
of stomach lining
from the table.

Look around,
I’d be as generous towards you
as someone who has nothing.

If I took scissors to this coat,
I’d still need to keep warm,
I’d only be ripping fabric
from the seams with which it claws,
not delivering the false economy of pain
to myself either,
that is good.

My boy, out skating, won’t survive the cold
back home.
He didn’t live long enough to meet his mirror,
nor discover how to carry himself,
rounded sharply at wise shoulders.

I shriek because the wind welcomes itself in,
and closes the door with a blast.
I laugh at the habits I still have,
and leave the house without this coat.

There is never anyone living
where the snowflakes are uniquely severed.
It is never anyone’s birthday,
when I’ve heard balloons can float.

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