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Poetry

Grand Lake, Minus Five

KJ Stevens
issue seven

This creep
of cold
freezes pipes,
slows the drain,
and penetrates—
seeps into cracks
and holes,
and works
in silence,
moving concrete
in the crawlspace,
shifting windows,
burning through
propane and wood,
eating electricity,
spreading snowflakes
in blustery gusts,
taking root,
snapping branches,
pulling energy
from batteries,
fingers, toes.
And when I open
the faucet,
it breathes,
trickles,
glugs,
then burps
a gray bubble,
and her
black hair
reaches up
from below.
Forcing this
only leads
to more
work,
so, I stop—
layer up
with wool mittens
and socks
she used to wear—
and set another log
on the fire.