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    This Is the Hour of Ice

     

    by Simone Muench

     

     

    Undress me in sleet & shadow. Winter me,

    frisk me. Frisk me later. Frisk me again

    as whiteness funnels in.

     

    You open your mouth & all the forest listens.

    Split isn’t easy to absorb—

    part darkness, part January light

     

    unraveling, fox fast, above

    the grey tree line. & sutures

    my body’s locked in loss.

     

    In the clearing of the woods,

    snow erases all prints. Don’t let me

    be right. Don’t let me mistake

     

    a deer’s skull for your frost-glazed face.

    Stretched before me like danger signs

    are wolves in their auburn-tinged regalia

     

    tracing & untracing the blizzard bright path,

    their howls of simulated warmth. A rabbit

    caught on the claws of an owl puts an end

     

    to the circling, as the triumphant beak

    screeches like rusted snow chains

    freeze-freeze-freeze. No one’s coming for you.

     

     

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