By Alison Stone
Blood test. Doctor on the phone. The cold.
Emily’s zero at the bone. That cold.
The child forced to choose – which parent to
become, which to betray. Two paths. One cold.
My heart – eight ounces of muscle holding
maiden eagerness. A mother’s grief. Crone cold.
Community. Connection. Love. Still,
at the end, private pain. Our own cold.
Wolves howl for the forest, logged to stumps.
Their ribs obvious as money, eyes monotone cold.
What do these have in common -- politics,
angel wings, lovers’ lies, ice cream cone? Cold.
Of course the dead visit. We left them
boxed up and buried, alone in the cold.
My aim is true, you croon with your back turned.
Your voice smoky, baritone, cold.
Published in They Sing at Midnight (Many Mountains Moving Press, 2003)