At Night I Think of Winter,
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Eczema burns me awake— my skin flakes like hot snow. I scratch and scratch, but the relief is temporary. Last July, my partner spilled boiling water down her legs and inner thighs. For hours, I coated her in Silvadene cream. Blisters puckered like air bubbles under ice. December—years ago, we skated on the lake behind our house. When my ankle twisted, the thermometer read five below. The day turned red—the color of my chest when it cracks: tiny volcanoes burst beneath the surface. At night, I think of winter. After my partner's accident—in the thick of summer—she slept downstairs on the couch. In the dark, she turned over and over. Upstairs, I glimpsed the first signs of snow— |
Shannon K. Winston's poems have appeared in RHINO, Crab Creek Review, The Citron Review, the Los Angeles Review, Zone 3, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and several times for the Best of the Net. Her poetry collection, The Girl Who Talked to Paintings, was recently published by Glass Lyre Press. She lives in Princeton, New Jersey. Find her here: https://shannonkwinston.com/.