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."