Winter 1987 • Vol. IX No. 1 A Poem |

Winter Days

What should we do without fire and death?HAWTHORNE The December day is dark at four and final.Though this mildness last all night,build into morning and goon day after unseasonable day,the winter sun still drops into a holelike the final separation of the heart,a swelling weight of joy to itself, only to itself:without love, feral, like the print of sharp human teeth in flesh,the eyes and mouth of instinct,animal, like the dog I see in firelightwho cannot smile or simper; the archedroof of her mouth, purplish and red,she lies on her back in animal ease,her wild lighted eyes half-open as she dreams, seeing.Like her, yes, like a dog, I could suckle a child or break its neck. Flesh-budded, I stretch out my hands and feelheat pour from her paw as she sleeps, blackclove-pads folded in like thick-seeded mullein tip—coarse sunsoaking weed of dry road sides—and I'm backto death and fire, and the reprieve of mammal heat. Yet instinct disgusts me. Flies hatchingin February thaw

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Owl

By Cindy Nichols

What should we do without fire and death?HAWTHORNE The December day is dark at four and final.Though this mildness last all night,build into morning and goon day after unseasonable day,the […]

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