Winterhospital

By DAWN TEFFT

the window is freezing into a lake

and nothing on its surface has vertebrae

I want my oily feathers back

the smell of tin-foil eyes

and catfish bones

 

underneath my skin, everything’s packed

and the day flakes like stream-caught salmon

 

underneath these ceilings, lysol gutters my dreams

turns to vodka        powdered guilt

 

underneath this sheet

pick it up–        the ice        the mentholated everywhere

 

ruin it

 

make it go August-fast

 

 

Dawn Tefft’s poems have appeared in Witness, Fourteen Hills, Sentence, and Court Green, among other journals.

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user David Breizh

Winterhospital

Related Posts

opulent room 1

Modest for a Dictator

IRINA HRINOSCHI
They were executed in winter: Nicolae Ceaușescu, and his wife Elena, who was also shot, but in people’s minds this was secondary to her being an insufferable pseudo-intellectual who loved fur coats. And their children, Nicu, Zoe and Valentin, spared during the 1989 Revolution.

white mailbox on the side of a road

A Road, the Sun

CAROLYN KUEBLER
The warmth of the sun, her skin warming up too. Yes, this is it, she says. I have always been and will always be this way. But what way is this? Is it happiness?

A tree growing in a bucket. Twisted branches spiral upward from the large green basin the tree sits in. It's a sunny day in the woods.

Ugly Trees

HEATHER E. GOODMAN
We have a really ugly sugar maple in our front yard. Yard is a euphemism for dirt and weeds. Dirt is a euphemism for clay and rocks. Weeds is a euphemism for invasive species and exhaustion. But we love this ugly tree.