My father built the house with rocks; my mother threw them.
Snow came through the holes she made.
She watched us freeze.
The wind blew snowdrifts to the ceiling. The floor iced over.
We lived in this frozen tundra,
praying for sun.
It was frigid; snowflakes filled our vision, decorated
the air. I wanted to catch them
on my tongue
but was afraid they were poisonous. The neighbors loved
gazing at the house, said the ice
looked so pretty. We didn’t
want it. I would’ve begged them to drag me out of there,
had my lips not frozen shut,
had I not been buried
in a snow blanket. I’m still there, smothered by
ice and snow, the seething eyes
of mother, these poems
in the silence. I hear the girl cry for help, see
her frosty breaths, feel her need
for light and warmth.
Can you set an ice castle on fire?