I have cold hands.
You press your back
against them but the adage
does not hold – my heart
would thrill a cryogenicist.
There have been men before you
who set up such a wailing
when I palm-printed
their bare shoulders. One I gave
a pair of frozen wings, feathery
veins cracking into fissures,
my hands of flesh transformed –
fingers become stalactites,
bed sheets in tatters, ragged
strips where I rent them with ice claws.
Ann Cuthbert writes poetry and short stories, mainly for her own amusement although she has had work published both online and in print. She has recently discovered that she enjoys performing poems in front of live audiences.
Photograph courtesy of PublicDomainPictures.net