Gilt in winter,
a few of us bear our frost bitten words
like spears sharpened from ice.
So when we impale you,
the evidence melts
and we are clean of your blood.
And we walk away pure as first snow
while you are left red handed and guilty.
Innocent tone
and vicious tongue.
Whorls of ice in the hair,
but a mouth thick with thorns.
I will freeze you out,
let the northern wind
slam the door hard,
and bury you beneath my quiet rage.
I will lick the flesh clean from your ice bound bones
till you are as empty as you made me.
