By Erica Phelps
Edited by Jessica Yi and Alloe Mak

I felt it next to me.
On the grass
under the snow.
I leaned down to lift it up,
but then it told me it tends to
bite.

I felt it and I sat next to it,
promising not to say anything.
I’ll wait and
I’ll let you leave and
I’ll wait some more.
Because I am entranced
and it is so sweet
to sit here in the cold
with it.

I want not to say anything
but I am full of words
and a scratched-up stomach.
A trail of pen-marked paper
from here to that door.
I think there of green
and tracing letters unto skin…
The sun is warming
and I wonder if I am over snow
and it is under,
who will melt first?

Kiss me,
and take the words out of my mouth.
Put your hands in my hair,
but keep your fingers far from my skin.
Because it is gentle and sweet
and I am ever so afraid
of being scratched.

I should not say anything,
but I’m sour and sore
and leaking from the lot of it,
trying to keep it from dripping
through the gaps between
my fingers,
seeping and settling
and staining the snow.

I plead with a smile
and we thaw with paining grace.
It’s so sweet,
to be quiet in the morning.
So bitterly delightful,
to be tired in the morning
and forget how to say
anything.