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Bride of Winter by Maureen Alsop

For anyone else, the batik lines drawn
across the calendar left mostly days behind. But I said
the pale earth was not the earth I used to walk. It's iced
macadam grew callus. A little more slipped
from me each season. Photographs reeled my understanding
of light. My body cackled an inner fissure, eased

my unease into the pace of my first gait. My posture rummaged
a grip of spine—serpenting
me lower. I etched my dreams, crunched orderly tracks, stretched
angel's wings as new existence. In silence

I promised myself a type of dying. Until
I became that photograph
and follicles of grief merged
into a dazzling of snow. I knew

this moment as my last collapse. I lay for once
with no one's touch    and persisted
on the specificity of dark. I forgot the lapses

of my frozen vows—
when leaving and loving converge as one—

before the contrast faded or grew too wide

[Maureen Alsop photo]BIO: Maureen Alsop's poems are published or forthcoming in various journals including: 88, MARGIE, Typo, Cider Press Review, Words and Images, and Patterson Review. She hosts the Palm Springs Art Museum's poetry reading series. EMAIL:

Woman in the River | Bride of Winter | Hands Baking Bread
Where It Comes From/Deep Within | Senility
Chickadee | A Celebration of Bats
Craft Circles with Wings of Grace | Gathered Ghosts

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