January 3, 2012. Cold. CWE 93

The cold rattles my body like a dry gourd.  I am the color of an orange stick of butter, and I was left to cure in the field under the winter’s snow and ice.  My bones float in blood and water, and they slide past one another like the earth’s plates.  Once my molars get to chattering, though, they set my bones crashing against one another.  The cold burns my fingers in red and white patches that flake off in the wind.  The wind carries pieces of me away to far off lands and chips away at me, tearing off small pieces of my face and ears with broken teeth.  I hope it takes the bad parts.  I hope I wake up one morning to a terrific blizzard that sloughs away all that is dead and dying, leaving behind a column of light that rises from the snow drifts like a lighthouse turning in neat black and white stripes.


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