On the stooped back of February,
she clenches legs and arms
tight around her emptiness,
lopsiding the couch
as plastic asters scratch
mad runes into the wintered pane.
stiffly, she sinks
to the floor on hands and knees,
scrabbling against the hardwood grain,
one arm cradling hanging breasts
snug against the flannel robe.
framed along the peeling sill,
she presses her lips against the glass
in a cautious, frosted kiss,
savors the chill of melting ice
sliding smooth and slick,
then moved by a memory,
she traces tonguetied lines
into twin black hearts.
Lick Lick. Lick. Lick.