Nikkita Cohoon

THE DARK IS COLD AND THE WIND HAS A FACE

I want to write a poem

about the way Winnie noses

her way into the first wind

of the morning,

the thrust of scent

that defines everything around her.

She noses the wind

she has defined this place

can account for strangers

for things unseen

for the angle of your missing

and the basil that has tipped on our patio

and the smallest things I could say

in the room of (quiet).

---

And everything shifted. This was not a spurring this was how it began. The smallest moments of clarity all begin with an “and.”

And in the room of quiet we made small lights of our fingertips. Words never entered there, only the things that have always existed. The skin on my lips is dry and I can taste cinnamon where the new flesh is exposed.

The smallest is this:

everything you can’t fit

in a ring box.

It is also mulled

and simmered

so the aftertaste

has its own voice

left untested.

(It floated by on the nicest Tuesday.)

---

And. There was our blanket

but our feet neither dry nor warm

we had to accept the chill.

Our mittened hands have slowed

they do not make the same sounds

do not carve homes into lovers’ bellies

or press the wrist until it glows white

with the pressure, instead

stay still in our laps

don’t flinch when flakes melt on knuckles and palms.

So I signed them--

not in any known language

but my fingers moved into shape--

I remember when cross-hatched lines filled my vision

how I saw them as the equation for everything.

What I learned of edges and their permeability.

I cut the proof.

My edges soaked with the loss.

Carve here

then kneel

where the plaster crumbles

at the base of the alter.

I let the shadows

have their say

I could have piled

so many things here.

---

I watch Winnie extend

beyond her own space

& consider what I should

be filling my time with.

And like I had before

I pictured

what I could not say.

I spread my arms

wide to make room

for the visions.

With connections, I could

show every one, thing

without a word.

Weeks later the after-image

still burns.

I looked into yesterday,

but mostly into oncoming Tuesdays.

And her arms stretch farther

to fill my place.

Nikkita Cohoon’s poems have appeared in elimae and The Bridge. Her artwork has appeared in Dear Camera Magazineand Mid-American Review. She is the online editor for Black Ocean.