You’ve fallen back on falling apart for too long, now. After all, when ice cracks up, rippling its Sturm und Drang beneath the boot, the aftermath is melting. Splash in step instead of running into gutters, which gets you merely elsewhere. Dribble. Tramp to the beat of each unbidden snowflake, glancing ice-blue beneath the obedient streetlamp. Move your feet inside of time. You find these instructions too confusing? Try this, then: Once there was a match girl who ruled from an icy throne. Burnt fingers were a tepid price for what she conjured with each strike? a magic bird, the blessings of ancestors, the opening word.
Mary Ann Rockwell lives in Syracuse, New York. Her work has appeared in Ellipses, Diagram.com, The Comstock Review, Pharos, among other journals. Currenly she is rekindling her love/hate relationship with oil paints (those silken colors, those noxious fumes!), and learning to lindy.