Editor’s note: Sarah Macy’s poem was an honorable mention in The Kiosk’s Fall 2023 Fiction Story Contest.

Last year, urban days laid
Their ways on my icy veins.

I did not melt in the spring. But
Had I reveled in the leaves awhile

Longer, had I allowed my toes
To burrow in the dirt, then I

Would not today have a shaven head,
Ash and smog and skin melded

Together. Nor would I reflect
As a frozen and burnt nymph.

I do not fear the winter.
I fear its affectation, the biting itch

Of wool blankets, of too-hot mugs.
I fear the annual, unexplainable patterns.