documentary of the icicles

i took my lungs & filled them with birds.
the snow would not stop 
& i thought maybe just maybe
i could become a shoulder of the mountain.
then by spring
when we ambled around dazed & bleary
they would find me,
a pile of ladles. soup spat
from the sink. my neighbor's house
lost heat & the icicles grew longer
& longer each day. i gazed at them
from the window. decided they were
my little gods. i waited for them to fall
as all gods do. the world has these moments
when it feels like it can fit
in your pocket. a photobooth picture
of whatever my life used to be before
my bones started migrating elsewhere.
they searched for warmth. i can 
not blame them. when people say,
"during covid" i hear 
"i do not believe in survival."
a kind of shifting like,
"i did not live in the same suitcase
that you did."
i know they do not mean anything by it
but i remember how the icicles shattered.
broken limbs. the ambulance
painting red on the white snow. 
i still have birds in my lungs. lungs
in all the birds. if i ever say,
"during covid" i mean during my life.
or, at least, during the life i can remember.
the before & the after are altered 
in their becoming. when the snow did stop
i could not breathe at all. 
i lay in a bath of epsom salt for weeks.
turned into a flute. let anyone 
who wanted to sing, come & use me. 
i always dreamed of carving an instrument
from one of those icicles. playing
until it melted in my hands.