Winter

“The heart can get really cold if all you’ve known is winter.” ― Benjamin Alire Sáenz

Flushing, New York — Winter 1997

You are afflicted on these winter nights when you look inward, contemplating an autonomy that was supposed to exist within you. You’re beginning to walk with that explosive action but the spear entered your left side. Turning way, you weep for yourself.

Go everywhere and try to blot out thought. Dances, museums, theaters — jaws of rotten molars all around. You are utterly incapable of even laying your own ghosts. You are, by implication, mapping out your own invisible spring, a sort of symbol of this artistic personality.

The rain rattles, the wind erupts and here you are. You want to say, always, ‘take me and rip me open’.

Coming away an old ashen grey, eyes on the fire, head resting on top of white steps picking at the garbage bag near the barred window, a funny kind of eternal intelligence emerges, the skeleton’s teeth smile upside down.

You are thoroughly opened up and explored. Your guts are emptied.