AFTER THE DRY SPELL: WINTER

Tyurina Allen

It is frost now
Where the mother drowns the child
With her voice
And her hands are sheltered in white

It is the walk up the sidewalk
A little white incision
Between unsought gray fingers
And cold toes

It is the wet label
Of season, the drought of
Christmas

It is the knockout
That strict fury you cannot catch

Even with words
Or hands
Wrapped around your neck
Draped, and almost
A common vowel
Like the substantial, the tangible
Which hovers about your head unnoticed
By the gray tapestry

But I am not just hands
I am emotional, like time and
I utter the suddenness of
Old pictures, the black and white negatives
Through that vertical glass
Through that curtained window