Guest Post: Cold

By my Chicago girl.

Step out and
lungs gasp but

throat closes tight at the no, no,
no! of the cold,
and for a moment I am breathless.

It slowly slides through all
my layers,
a solid sheet of pin-pricking––

You don't belong here, my
body moans,
and for a moment I understand
that despite my honey-dark hair,
my blue eyes, my fair skin meant to drink in
this thin northern sunlight,
far,
far,
far back,
my family lived in Africa.

And it's quite laughable,
really,
the endeavors of
down and
wool and
leather,


for all never quite make up
for my heritage.

6 comments:

Jenica 2/09/2011 9:07 AM  

I really like the rythm of this poem, and the italics. Even though I also have African heritage (probably more so than blue-eyed, fair-skinned Chicago girl) and I enjoy the cold.

Holly 2/09/2011 9:24 PM  

Jenica - Yes, I think you are definitely right -- hers is only as much as what goes back aaalll the way to the hominids, I am 99 percent sure. :P But you know the feeling of the worst cold, when your body just recoils?...That's why I loved this.

Jenica 2/10/2011 8:17 PM  

Ha! I am definitely right, as I can trace my heritage straight back to the man who's sitting behind me right now; my dad. But yes, I do know that cold. This poem expresses it eloquently.

her chicago girl 2/10/2011 8:52 PM  

Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm European back several dozen generations, at least. :)

Holly 2/10/2011 9:34 PM  

Jenica - Only because you said "probably." :P
Where is your pater from?

Jenica 2/11/2011 10:39 AM  

Oh, well...that was a "benefit of the doubt" probably. Or something.
He's from Indiana, so I'm American for an unknown amount of generations but of course he's African American. :)

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