Corrosion

Everything softened, edgeless, peacefully geometric:
the fence posts wearing elbows of white,

                           the pool cover snow-smothered,
                           the bird feeder topped with a delicate hat,

no birds attempting a December refueling.
The truth—it was always the squirrels who ate best,

                            plumping themselves on what they stole.
                            I’ve seen them hurtle their tight little bodies

from my shingles, latching to the feeder
like leeches with fur. They’ll do anything

                              for some seed, just like my husband.
                              He’s out front, scraping

a narrow path from the door to the street.
He says he wants to save me

                               from my own bad back. The truth—
                               he thinks his labor will earn him a blow job.

I can hear the rasp of his shovel’s metal lip
as I sip my gone-cold coffee. Nothing

                                warms me. My body, a sack of icebox lemons.
                                My fingers, freezer-burned Jimmy Deans.
 
Last night, I slid my vegan daughter a sliver
of flank steak. She accepted, chewing

                                each morsel with intense seriousness.
                                I’m ashamed, she said, spearing another bite.

The cold erodes her staunch morality.
The cold erodes everything, even my desire

                               to lug myself from the table, my will
                               a dead mouse in a woolen mitten.

Randy slams into the house, stamping his boots.
My daughter lingers by the cheese drawer.

                              I watch a sparrow orbit the feeder,
                              a peach pit of body heat with nowhere to land.

Read more from Issue 22.2.