THAWING
The Northridge Review, April 2020
My friend told me
LA would thaw me
This is good
she said
tucking my scarf tighter
the brittleness of Chelsea
cutting through both our coats
Mhmm
I nodded
Suspicious.
But I wasn’t one to talk
a glistening block of ice
sliding along
unable to be stopped
unable to sit still
unable to be touched
She wasn’t wrong
I dripped for a solid year
leaving trails behind me
as I tried to acclimate
to the blinding light
This thawing though:
all the water has to go somewhere
that without the municipal pipes
dumping into the East River
you need to find
new storm drains
People in LA cry in their cars
there is no solidarity
like crying on the train
where someone will
shoot you the glance
that infinitesimal nod
we’ve been there,
you’ll be okay
You cry in the sunshine
and it feels like a joke
like the equipment van
parked on your street
will call wrap
so you can go back to
whatever it is you do
Your wish is granted
and so you stop thawing
before you even realize
you go out one morning
ready to wipe up
after your soggy footprints
but they’re gone
Huh.
just like that
you nod,
suspicious.
But you’re preoccupied
picking at your skin
parched, papery
When did thawing
slip to drying
Could use some cold weather
But you can’t go back to freezing—
surely, it would cause cracks.