4/4 in a suite of seasonal poems

she’s got frost on her fingertips

and a world she can’t wait to see

but it’s snowed in, and dark now

and there’s no point in trying to leave

she paints the world in bleeding colour

an apple-red flush to her cheeks

it’s all waiting out there

the big, wide world

where the doves flutter free

and no one ever stays home

but what if she doesn’t want to leave

what if the sky is dark, and cold

and here, in this small-town oblivion

is everything she knows

and she loves it, and she hates it

encases herself in ice, and snow

she’s a statue of a person

she’s a tired, broken home

she’s walking slow out the door

running her hands across textured wallpaper

woodsmoke and dust

and it’s melting fast

the kingdom she ruled, running down the river

she’s got eyes carved from glass

and tired, heaving lungs

with just enough steam left for one last dance

to old songs through a record player

and a shitty plastic christmas tree

one last night

to wash the blood out of her teeth