Ice (a poem for winter)

Has rendered them quickly dead.
Skeletons part
To grant me the wide,
Open water. I
Press my palms to its arctic smooth,
Feel for life.

Along this span of icy
Blue, I will take
Back my living will,
Knife blades to the soles
Of my feet inseparably strapped,
Razor edge

To the thick hard cold under
Me. My wake will
Leave wounds which do not
Fill, even as I
Heal and am gone, scars to remain
Until dawn.

Anne DeAcetis is a writer and performer based in New York whose career spans a self-reinvigorating mix of business and creative projects. She insists on poetry. Even when it isn’t called for. www.annedeacetis.com

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