And none of you will bid the winter come

when i was little
or at least little enough
that the
memory
is tea coloured and slightly speeded up
my father
brought home
some
solid carbon dioxide
or
dry ice
or
card ice
beloved
by rockstars
and chemistry teachers
and people who wish to freeze stuff
but do not have a
freezer.

with scientists’ enthusiasm for
New
we watched it
smoke
and rubbed our hands above it as if expecting warmth.

don’t touch
he said
don’t touch
and my brain was full
of

glittering spikes hanging from austrian roofs/a tongue stuck to a metal pole/ the squeak of  ice between my teeth/ pinkish ears zombie toes cold blinked eyeballs/ splintered diamond pavements/ peas and ice cream and shrink wrapped meat/ swimming pools in january white on white on white/ and every frozen thing i had ever felt or seen or known

in another life
i turn to
old wisdom;
there is no smoke without fire
the earwig whispers
but i know that
smoke
can come from cold things too
and that
cold things
can
still
burn.

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