thaw

It’s the sun slant of February
that you remember. First thaw.
The boys in brown trucks.
How they smelled of juniper
and beer. Something
sweating fever. Hard.

On some road that skirts
the river, ice cracking brittle
as fingernails, your breath
labors somewhere tight.
Smudges the windows.
Branches tangle the surface like limbs.
You take the bottle, smile.

Still, haven’t you walked into that
frozen river a thousand times?
Felt the cold call you, take you in?
Even doing something as simple
as pulling a sweater over
your head, or brushing your hair,
don’t you still?

Everyday, this pale light filtering.

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From the fever almanac, ghost road press 2006About the author: Poet and artist Kristy Bowen is the author of several handmade and limited edition chapbooks, including feign (New Michigan Press, 2007). She edits the online lit zine wicked alice and runs dancing girl press, which publishes the work of women authors. For the last few years, she’s lived on Chicago’s far north side in a big old art deco building near the lake.