By Carson Elliot
You come to me crying
because your hands are on fire,
the cold sinks into your skin like a flame
and the only cure you know for pain is weeping.
How I want you to know the wonder of frost
without the consequence of a careless body,
how I want you to learn to love the cold
while it still lingers on your cheeks.
Snow replaced by ice replaced by winter rain–
the sleds lie in the garage unused for years.
There once was a tiny patch of hill
two houses down the size of a mountain
the same way a drainage ditch is the width
of a river to a child who knows no better.
The sharp sting of wind and speed and flight
digging paths into the shiver of white below.
Now, only the rain can touch
your warm center in ways that burn.
Drought following flood,
I watch the hillside sink away–
we are the storied paths of all we touch,
each footstep a scar in the ground we walk.
I tell you of the way the snow
once came up past my knees
and you look at me the same way
you look at the ending of a fairy tale.
Carson Elliot (they/them) is a poet and educator living in Middle TN after spending many years in the quiet corners of Northeast Ohio. They are the author of the chapbook Celestial Bodies: A Year of Transgender Love Letters (2023). Their work focuses on the intersections of transness, spirituality in the natural world, and questions of belonging. Their work can be found in publications such as Samfiftyfour, Pile Press, Third Iris, Fifth Wheel Press, Stirring, South Broadway Press and New Note Poetry.
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