Blizzards

Push away hands from the rain

The flood washes them too clean

Nobody here will survive what they think they will

The living face wrapped in the cold spring

Of mornings that die

Of mornings that die without stars

To break the fall of sleep

To break the wall of dream

The mornings that die

The tender web of silver protest

Undone

Fragile unkept

Struggling under the weight

Of leaning mothers reaching out for the

Last of their love

Too late

They remain numberless and

Clothed by men who pin the feathers on with knives

They who come back

And into this war

And into this war

Of words, of mirrors to be a prisoner

Again, we

Hang ourselves with our flesh

Then we run and hide

From blizzards