these are the
mornings when
cold takes on
a body & follows
me home inside
the door--
crawling into 
bed next
to me-- playfully 
bites my ear-- the
cold is a terrible flirt--
presses hands
on the small of
my back until 
he's wearing
my body as his own--
laying here
i think of myself
as a wonton
or a pot-sticker--
or a pirogue
doughy blankets
enveloping me--
seal me with 
steam--
when i was
eight i would
eat deconstructed--
scrape the 
potatoes or 
pork filling from
their casing--
place myself
inside & reseal 
them--
with a few
table
spoons of water
or a paper
towel the
microwave 
can give birth 
to anything &
there i 
put myself
for 30seconds-
1 minute-- watching
the cold
exorcised from 
skin--
here in my
blankets--
resisting
being
born into 
another year
still so cold--
i'm not so much
afraid
of changing 
as i am afraid 
that it will
hurt & that 
i won't know
how much it 
hurt until
i look back--
head beneath
the covers--
hot holy water
wrinkling
my flesh--
the cold will
of course
coarse himself
inside-- 
open the windows
a crack when i'm
not careful--
i poke today
with a fork--
perch on
my wooden desk
chair--
burst blood
vessels-- 
fireworks
on my neck--
the year
is new--