the inexplicable cold of july

When light breaks the fixation
I will see in living, breathing color
what I could never touch: Pink-haze
cheeks through the lying frost.

Will your kindness greet me then,
my weathered arms and legs,
in a tangled web that would take
ones longer than ours’ to undo?

The birds told me you would,
and I believe them.
But even they follow the same
twisted pattern of shades and seasons.

I would bring them home as gifts
if we all spoke the same tongue—
I still recall the tiny undulations
when you teased with the dexterity
of yours.

The infinite tastes that came from it
left me dumb—staring ridiculous.
Now, standing here, still, the fixed light,
with my mouth frozen to the sheet.

I think of tearing off my icy tongue,
as I would you, from my memory—
It kills me, and I won’t do it;

If that shade of cheek
could find such heat
on any arctic coast.