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There are more variations
on the word "frozen"
than I imagine possible:
moving, in the middle of winter,
to a cold country,
I learn to read
degrees of freezing,
beginning with earth frozen
three feet down,
thermometer plunged below zero
and below twenty below—
days now, I've seen
no more than light
through frosted windows;
the house cracking and groaning
under a burden of cold;
until now, my heart freezes
inside my rib-cage,
ice hidden under snow,
even to walk on this frozen
land is treacherous,
falling onto cement, falling
back through more than thirty
years, to where I am teenaged,
an adolescent boy's body
pressed next to mine,
hot breath on nape of neck.
I wish we could hibernate
through all these cold winters,
burrow together for warmth
under a frozen earth,
our furred bodies becoming
each other's shelter;
or I could become a naked
body frozen blue,
needing all the heat
you generate to melt me,
like a January thaw,
liquid flowing from a body
that was frozen solid.
This little it takes,
to freeze me in my tracks—
your voice speaking
to me in anger—
and I become an ice sculpture,
thawing drop by drop
until I lose all structure.
On the window-pane
fingers of frost
like angel's wings;
we must wait for spring
until any real thaw occurs.

Copyright by Carolyn Zonailo: www.carolynzonailo.com, 2004