winter room

widowed and grateful sad little soul so

wispy, handheld. a craft in the shape of a meager wolf,

hair and bones and lightweight skin holding

hands that turn black in grief, damp creature

made of a gulf or a sea

robbed. pebbled mouth or

several rocks that make up a neck

choking alone to find herself

bare in tender hurting things

called gestures, or maybe it was intention;

split

the room into four congruent pieces.

memorize the way walls walk, or crawl

then dress accordingly. pretty little black dress

made of blackest hands, a purity messy with so much error directed at it.

raise a spliff to her black eye and blind heart. and a winter room

to forgive

as if all the cold were miniature versions of sadness trapped

into an early pear, reaching her breast

gently rooting in memory and flesh and frothing

and perfect.