COLD POEM

The poem was quiet in the freezer:
it was still, waiting for my soul.
My frozen hands couldn't warm
my hateful mind: there was a blizzard
in my throat. The wind had blown away
the words and the feelings.
Could I live in the eye of the hurricane?

When I looked at the sky, the sun had grown
cold too. Maybe there was an extratropical
cyclone coming: all the instabilities caused
by the stream flow are still here.
Natural accidents are poorly understood.
I look back and the typhoon is lying on the
sofa, half dead, afraid of tomorrow.
I wonder when the poem will defrost.
My hands are cold.
I always thrust them into my pockets,
searching for some warmth and some things
which will remind me of yesterday.
There is only death there.

The poem is cold
and my shrine is inaccessible.
I remain on this glacial pedestal
immersed in wise disorder.
My fingertips are marked on
the mysterious ice.
I feel nothing.
Numbness is so warm.

Karla Bardanza