Blizzard

Automatic,

Symphonic

Chat—Chat—Chatter

Of teeth:

Frozen white and

Gnawing against the cold of coming night.

Start the fire, please, Sir.

Start the branches burning;

Stop my heart, my body, my mind

            From turning

            To            Ice.

 

Rub the branches—

Rub,

Rub,

            Rub—

Please, Sir,

Say you see a spark—

Take the matches,

Strike them against the bark—

Say the matches work,

Say they weren’t ruined

By the water that

Stained me cold.

 

But this is more than cold—

For cold, Sir, my crossed arms and

Blanketed body can handle.

Sir, Sir—bring the warmth,

For this is ice glaring with

Frozen crystal eyes;

This is snow—

Blizzard—

Frozen soul;

 

This is how, I think, the bagels that have been ice-burned in the freezer section of the mid-city Wal-Mart must feel.

            But worse—

Much worse, this curse

            Of red toes,

            Unbendable hands,

            And mist-cloud breath.

Much worse,

The way it burns—

            If only the fire would burn—

Inside my throat,

Down deep in my chest:

Frozen

Like fear before the final test.

 

Oh, God,

            Please, Sir,

                        Say you see a spark—

Just a single spark—

Say you see another

Fifty years of life for me,

For I don’t want to

            Die—

            Freeze—

                        Permanent statue—

            Perish—

            Die in this

            Automatic,

            Symphonic

            Bitter                Glitter

            Frozen              Devil—

 

I don’t want to

Die

In this

Cold.

Strike

A match,

Sir,

Strike

A

Match.