Grief Freezes in -30 °C

by Calypso Haine

It’s -30°C and the hood on your car wont close.

You freeze your fingers against the metal of your engine,

slam it shut the way you were taught how 

by someone you can only see in pictures now.

You’re charging it 

and you can’t remember 

if it’s been this stubborn before. 

You can’t remember 

what he told you,

the way he told you, 

what it sounded like,

the way his smile 

curved at the edges, 

how his hand felt on your head 

proud, of course, but 

but but but but 

you can’t remember. 

All you know is it wont close now 

so you worry yourself sick over it.

If you were back two three years ago 

you would have called your dad to ask 

and he would have picked up 

no matter the time 

to soothe your worries.

Now your septum freezes to your face,

two three years older,

and the only way you can talk to your dad 

is by looking up at the moon and 

forgetting to remember.