Photo by Kalle Kortelainen via Unsplash

The Shape of Her Body in the Snow

Do I exist if I doubt? 

How do my newly-shaped limbs 
come into being? 

I must be here, anchored
in the movement 
.                                        of falling snow. 
Doubts 

float over my liquid 
.             self
curdling it into a thought—
.                                        a glimpse 

of what I may become.

I hear his steps in the house
filling the air 
.                           with random 
anger. 

I think up lovers,
white beasts 
.                           shedding their hair 

on the black earth.

First published in Poemeleon, the Tryth/y Issue, Volume XI, Spring 2020