my throat shrivels inside frozen
rainfall, empty pockets,
and crescent chests.
birds cry into the sun’s cheek,
ashen breath lifting their
feathered bodies below 15 degrees.
snow bundles shadows of limbs
into wings, outlining an angel in
sod’s deadened sobs—her thin frame
resembling my mother’s,
whose hair once colored
the wind auburn and
my youthful skin warm,
whose hands protested
our lives not be wrapped
in paper planes flying
towards oblivion.
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