Mary Hamrick

Mary Hamrick

 

 







 

 

"Losing Independence"  

     

    Whenever she takes-in a man

    her soul is scoured out:

     

    she becomes him

    and loses her umbrella

     

    in his winter storm.

    Unaware to itself,

     

    the seam of her body

    opens

     

    and pieces of her nylon ribs

    are stitched

     

    to his sad music.

    Bit by bit,

     

    near the skin,

    their tiny set of veins

     

    becomes one ice crystal. His.

    Cold-shocked,

     

    fingerlike toes

    cling to him and become him.

     

    Like an umbrella

    blown inside out,

     

    her mind is confused,

    fuzzy,

     

    dull.

    The lines of their bodies

     

    fuse as one. His.

    Snowblindness:

     

    in her wilderness

    she allows

     

    snow pellets to scar her.

    Like an umbrella, wrenched shut

     

    her mouth clicks mute

    with a snap of his finger.

     

    Ice columns begin to set

    as the snow needles

     

    fall to the ground.

    A fence is formed. Hers.

     

    And the signpost reads

    "Snow Slides:

     

    Outsiders

    Unwelcome."

 

 

 

 

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