ice maker 

a cold mouth is a growing one.
i cannot name water without 
thinking of terror. an empire
begins with gender-horror.
the land as a woman. a woman
as a vessel & an apple tree. chopping down
the mother & dragging her to watch
mountain-scarred with faces. as a child,
i loved to eat ice. we bought a cheap
plastic tray &, as the day grew long,
& i waited for my parents to come home,
i would suck & bite until my teeth
rung like bells. i was born 
in a furious heat. july with her hair down.
i always realized what was different
in other people's houses. the ice makers 
built into the doors of fridges. 
a light on in the middle of the purple dark.
skirt slit glow on the kitchen floor. 
sleepovers where, when others were in bed,
i would go to chew ice in the kitchen. 
groaning mechanism. bowls & bowls.
all kinds of feast. no one ever caught me. 
i learned to take only what will
no be missed. the ice maker, refilling
before anyone else was awake. water coming
& going. the rain on the roof. barefoot july
eating a hole through the wall. now, i still
keep a mouthful of the cold. bite down 
harder. years of practice. they think
i am scared of creatures that eat our flesh
but i eat bone. i devour the cold. 
make oceans from the ice. the empire
did not consider that we would still be here.
they say this weekend it will
snow again. i will be here, mouth open. 
i was made to melt ice.