morning icicles hang
nearly a week long
everyday growing sharper
from warmth, becoming
like the teeth of a wood-burning
home, little children
with cinder printed hands
their mothers clothe their windows
in sheets, she's out all day
don't answer this door, she might say
like my mother once said
she said without tooth or ice
blue ignites white roof tops
laundry piles
i leave books like stacked
chimneys
winter finds way inside
i prepare the bed
for her chill
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