Ice cap heart
Nothing thaws with the intention of refreezing or puddling in its
own emissions & regurgitated juices. We’re chilling, grossly human & ill-
prepared, cells numb or stumbling toward heat & light, however brief
or artificial. It’s sorcery & stupid how earth breaks for our return. Folds
easily as undeliverable mail. Such cold hunger & ineffective filling. Even
hair exits uneventfully. What this is won’t boil, froth, or simmer into
sustenance. I’m not your xxx. Not your damn or frozen tundra. My body
refuses re-wilding. Nobody survives these extremes; don’t approach
without warning & wavering. We can’t determine depth double-fisted.
The probability of disaster is exponential to my ache. Multiplied by
the overwhelming accommodations of desire. I want some kind of manual
for becoming crystalline. Put your legs out first. Testing. This opaque
surface was once motion incarnate. Remember the blur & buzz? How
I said you won’t feel this? This slick sheet could be home. Or hollow.
Or more hunger. Might hold us still. I’m an unreliable narrator covering
dangerous ground. I can’t warm this leftover landscape. I’m not saying
this won’t give way. I’m saying we’ll make our way out.
Jennifer R. Edwards is the author of Unsymmetrical Body (Finishing Line Press, 2022). Her poems have received a Pushcart Prize nomination, the 2022 New England Poetry Club Amy Lowell Prize, and support from the Palm Beach Poetry Festival and Colgate Writers Conference. Her poems appear in anthologies and literary magazines, including, recently, Passengers Journal, Mom Egg Review, Literary Mama, and Snapdragon. She’s a speech-language pathologist in Concord, New Hampshire, residing with her family and pug. Find her on Twitter @Jennife00420145 and Instagram @Jenedwards8, and at https://linktr.ee/JenEdwards.
Header photo by Trismegist san, courtesy Shutterstock.
