Ice Fall

Sitting in the cold car,

listening to ice fall

from the trees.

Snow coats the grass.

I can feel winter

circling around my feet.

My knees.

Snow and ice battle leaves

for property.

I feel pressure in my chest,

a magic force,

forcing out between

my breasts,

an open and uncaged love.

Like the parakeets that sing

as if they live in Australia,

not in metal

next to the window and the rain.

I could flip myself inside out,

but I would be too raw to stand.

So, I hold my shit together,

breathe,

count,

sing,

rub my hands,

and focus the energy elsewhere,

to something less self serving.

I feel too old to be destructive,

but I’m about as nuanced

as candy corn.

If I leave this car,

I will melt into yellow, orange

slush on the pavement

and attract bugs.

Who says my tits

need to point to the ceiling?

Not the sleet,

the leaves,

or me.