This is the cold of childhood
– fingers and toes numb
and the nose red – no longer
Such is the cold, this thoughtless
cold, this chapping of the exposed,
this remembered cold, aching
even in memory.
Gratuitous. It is not the cold
of work, nor cold of play, nor
that cold of surviving the
It is the white, porcelain skin of death
— that clean, severe beauty we fear
and seek, the absolute we seek and fear,
and finding lose.
Always within our grasp.
Always ours for the ask.
Douglas K Currier holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Pittsburgh and writes poetry in English and Spanish. He has published in several journals: The Café Review, Main Street Rag, The Comstock Review, and others, as well as in the anthologies: Onion River: Six Vermont Poets, Getting Old, Welcome to the Neighborhood, and Poemas Zafados in North and South America. He lives with his wife in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.