In the Waiting
She longs to be cold,
wants the fire drawn out
like flax spun through pores,
her fabric altered
to ice
or helium, which
once cooled
can slide through a glass wall,
nothing broken
shredded
sharded,
fading through windows
and patio doors,
no wake of warmth
just cold
as a soul might feel
when it passes,
keening
like a swan
shot
and fallen
to the ground.
© 2004 Jennifer Anne Beebe
|