by Kristen Tracy
There are women living a much longer life in this winter. I stand it with its cold side almost breaking into me. I lie here in night and let myself think of them— some of them make it back to me. They hold my shoulders press near my neck and with their almost hands untangle the hair across my throat. While they are here they want to tell me everything— of how I am a woman of how the beds are growing past their time.
