Abbie Doll, Fall(len) Peace, 2017 (Artist X, Instagram)
Photograph
The first poem that made him cry, he says
in the lecture, and I am sitting at a desk
in February, twelve students leaning in
to listen. There has been snow outside forever,
warmth only in bath water, a lover’s skin
on mine—; there’s little warmth in the feeble rays
straining through classroom glass or fever
that that brings only chills. I’ve done my best
all my life I am thinking, and here this winter
is testing me, like a child tests the ice
on the river with one foot, her parents shaking
their heads, counting to three—once, then twice—.
My resolve’s never been clearer, or thinner—
a voice cracks through the lines without breaking.