a letter to the editor

hey winter,

                      you’re a gargoyle. our apartment is bone-cold and i’ve stolen michael’s slippers. i had to knit napoleon a sweater. my fingers have turned to icicles. the only part of me that has managed to stay warm is my belly. i fill it with cups of the thousands of boxes of tea in the cupboard. i’ll fill it with the lentil soup i made this morning. i did not invite the north wind to supper. i sip rum to feel alive. my high heels get filled with snow. i swear the christmas tree is shivering.  you stoic new englander, you fill my lungs with zeros.

                                                       c.