Cold

It was so cold,
the war had frozen over.

I could see my breath in the classroom,
fluffy like cotton yarn,
and my teacher’s,
and my high school colleagues’.

At home, I’d place my hands
over the reading lamp
to turn them from blue
to red.

Mom bought fabrics, lining, batting, and snaps
and made my brother and me ski costumes
to wear to school.

We slept with wool hats,
wool socks, wool mittens,
and wool sweaters so thick
they were bullet- and moth-proof.

My breath turned to dew on the wall,
then froze into intricate flowers
and vines.

It was so cold,
the actors on the stage had visible breath,
and the theatre audience
breathed in Shakespeare’s verse
and exhaled cirrus wisps.

The bride and groom kissed nonstop
to keep warm,
and the wedding guests spoke white words
before the food arrived.

It was so cold,
the rocks cracked open.

The doctors breathed white gauze
as if ghosts were present
in the operating rooms
before opening
the patients’ steaming bellies.

It was so cold,
my circus lady neighbor
brought home the pythons
so they wouldn’t freeze,
and kept them in the bathtub.

She wore them to work,
a tight suit
under her mink fur.

For decades, it was cold, cold.

Each one of us exhaled
a small cloud,

proof we were alive.