Anna Taylor

Icicle in pieces on the back step

I picked it up and brought it in,

Leading it into its own abstraction

As the morning wore on.

House hung heavy with anticipated decline

The muted wait, 

Drawn in our imagining for months and years

Which was then close

And later happened.

Unseen dark filtered in, settling.

Rooms and body static, jolting with denser air

Every measure of time acute;

Wade through each beat

To drag the back of your head

To keep up with the front

To rattle at speed and sometimes slower

A magnet interchangeably.

‘Are we speaking in opposites? 

I get confused.’

Their voices mingle with my thoughts

And carry their weight

On light words.

The bridge of my nose aches

And nostrils feel smaller

Like pinpricks to carry the air

In and out.

My icicle is shrinking in a puddle

I am keeping it with me.

I am writing on mounds and it is all connected.