Finding a Locked Door

We grow too far. After the icicles
shot down from the roof and left
pockmarks in the snow, we stilled,
and our wrists, the only
visible skin, grew warm.

Out the blurred window, mornings
migrate and pass. Swallowing puddles
of air as your breath grazes my neck.
Edging away. Passing it off as the time
I let a small cousin fall asleep on top of me

because he missed his mother
too much to sleep alone.
I stilled my torso until it was safe
to heave him off without his waking.

By Kathleen Martin

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