The other day, I went to the doctor because I couldn’t
get warm. I would rub my fingers together, cricket fast,
rub my hands against my cold jeans, hug the heater,
put on jackets, don several scarves, and wear a hat. I tried
gloves. I exercised,
mostly.
I watched TV, saw what they planned for the wolf
cubs in their dens, imagined tall
white men with bombs crunching away from the helicopter.
I boiled, still frozen.
The appointment was for next
month, and while I waited, I drew shapes
into the frozen condensation on my arms. I chilled
beers with my hands, stood close to friends at hot ball games,
went to the desert and paved my way
through the wavy lines with my stiff limbs.
With his gloved hand, he took my pulse, recommended
rest, and told me to make another appointment
if I didn’t get better.
I left and settled
into an alcove in a park,
surrounded by shrubs and passing
squirrels, and I became her,
the marble statue in the garden.
Look how patiently
she seems to stare
away, as if waiting.
Melcontents 