Frost and Confessions

December was written on her
Face, masquerading in purple
Lips and snow. Her body tasted
Like beautiful left out in the cold.

When she didn’t speak
To them, lost birds refused to fly
Away, resting in the death
Of winter, sleeping in her arms.

I carry her eggs
Inside my womb,
Keeping her spirit alive.

When I’m alone, I bleed.

I kiss flowers
From her lips,
Shattering like love.

Her lips speak of freedom,
Taking fancy flights
Up there, with the moon;
The wind takes pleasure
Bending in the arched folds
Of her golden back, acting like a twin.

Butterscotch mountains
Peek through northwest clouds,
Aching for her breasts.

In prayer, I wish for the space
In her eyes, before she free falls
Back to Eden, blinking them away.

When God wasn’t looking,
She lifted up her skirt
And I confessed.

I poured wax on her belly
And set her soul on fire,
Melting the frost that had gathered
Around her halo.

Moments later, I froze to death.

© David T. Hunt 2013. All Rights Reserved.