Cold Snap


Dearest one
tonight I'm the weather
outside your house

All electric wires iced
and the stiff and singular
trunks of century-standing elms
pulled down

People are peering through
their windows holding their shoulders
shivering vases of organs that they are
saying such a storm where
did it come from

Tell them
that today I saw you bend
to lift a dead nuthatch from the snow
a shock of rust against your hand
and with one finger you stroked its head
the down not yet frozen

and I have been thinking
all day of your gentle movement
of snap and thaw

and so I go on sliding my winds
below your shingles
making your walls buckle
and groan until you open
the door
​
​
Helen Spica's work has appeared in a variety of literary journals, including Midwestern Gothic, Off the Coast, Split Rock Review, and is forthcoming in Denver Quarterly. She lives in Chicago.