it only took eighteen days
out there, the sky is emptying itself in a fit. flurries in the air like a dance choreographed by mania— like the year the lake froze over, but just. little blue boots toeing their way out, testing the surety of ice & its capability to hold a body until not— a failed test, a smile cracking across the surface & a small body blueing beneath the frozen water. i mean that didn’t happen to me, but it happened. i think. & today’s just the same. the sky like a sheet of ice, grey & terrible & cold. the snow letting up but not stopping. & the lake hasn’t come close to freezing, is still somehow green at the edges. summer holding on the way it was 70 a week ago. the pines now are frosted just like they are on the sweaters before screen printing, when you could thumb the snow & almost feel the cold even as it wrapped you in warmth. you or me or whoever, i mean. each peak is dusted with that frosty bright white & each end is puffing out the smallest bit of smog & even now, winter is here or at least the tail end of fall, the temperature corrected & the days ending early no longer feels like whiplash, but it still isn’t right. i mean we’re still marching on, my gas bill is wracking up, i don’t know what distinction is being made when they specify natural gas but i know it’s not worth it to ask. in the jail they’re still blowing the ac. they give you two blankets but only one’s allowed out of the cells. all the inmates are wrapped up like shepherds with no herd. or they are the herd. except the blankets aren’t wool, they’re a polyester blend. you know that feeling when you tap the toe of your boot against ice that’s encapsulated melted ice, just the slightest tap & it spills out, that seeping spreading, water eating away at the ice until it's all one. you know the cold so bitter it burns, like blue fingers or a tongue stuck to an icicle or lips so chapped they’re swollen & bleeding. so you know, the snow stopped. i forgot to notice when the last leaf dropped. seasons aren’t so much seasons as suggestions now, & time’s falling all into & out of itself. & the seagulls are still here but they’ve stopped screeching. the birds have all gone quiet now, under the hush of snow.
case hardened with a line by Ariana Brown
let me start by forgiving the day for leaving. begging the clock to still. knowing the hour will disappear in a day & loving it while it’s still here.
holding with eyes rather than hands the pink sky, the delicate brushstroke offered by the world. let me start by saying there is only beauty & its endless
subjectivity. we’ll get to the pain & the grief in time but for now let me soak in the reflection of the lake, let me remember
the sun shattering against waves, a thousand diamonds— or sequins— wherever the sun’s price range may fall.
i will not tell you i’ll miss this. once we reach the after, we’re there. but it’s clear the sky is bright & blue & open. it’s november & the air is so comfortable
it’s stifling. 72 with wind whipping bare branches & yet another advisory. i’ve only just applied the reduction from the last outage & if we must acknowledge the crisis—
& we must acknowledge the crisis— let me say, i have no solution but an open door & a tiny figurine ticking in time with light, which are no solutions at all
but still a pleasant distraction. let me admit i accepted the upcharge, not fully knowing whether or not it goes toward clean energy
advancements. or alternatives. listen, the cold will come in time & already the leaves are dropping. the birds will likely stay another winter
here in michigan, their bellies warming spots of water back from ice. & the ceaseless night will try to consume me. but all that is yet to come. for now there is only now. here,
the chickadee landing on the screen guarding the window, nearly horizontal in its clutching. here, the gourds shriveling into themselves, the plants on the sill withering from lack of watering
& time stretching continually out. so this moment, in truth, has already been captured. so the world is still the world & i am still in it, trying to remember what it feels like to wonder.
wonder, as in awe. as in, i’ve backed myself into another corner but i’m beginning to wonder if there’s a door. even the space for one would do. the molding, the jam, the empty opening
with room still for possibility. listen, i know what a dremel is despite a lack of callouses.
listen, there is still time for me to learn how to use my hands. listen—
BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in FOLIO, Figure 1, and The Offing, among others. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co