“The statue who thought he was living” by Emily Clibourn

My hands are cold, icy cold
sometimes.
And I don’t realize it
until Im out of the water, until Ive crawled up out of the hole of the frozen lake and
walked across the mist
to my fireplace.
His heart is always burning,
and I don’t realize Im not even feeling
until it comes over me like a gust of wind later when Im all alone. I cant defrost around you.
I can only melt these hard walls once Ive sat alone long enough by myself. Not thinking of anything in particular. Just feeling. And maneuvering through
the tales the wind provides,
as I ride,
up, down,
this way,
to that side.
Id ask you to ,but Im afraid you might actually do
it, peel the flakey old layers, like paint of off walls,
so that they do not encompass my heart. So my organ responsible for
embracing and holding another can jump,
and not sit like a statue on my mantle,
crowing it’s eyebrows and scuffing
at everyone who sits down below..

Emily Clibourn

© 2010