by Jen Karetnick
They rise upon you, flood
you in the neighborhood of sleep
where once-solid canyons of breasts,
hips, knees, parched from breath, west of age,
have slipped, begun to crack.
It’s not that there’s a lack of cool
breezes or even air
conditioning; matter of fact,
it’s like you booked a room
in an ice hotel, framed yourself
an igloo. Still you melt,
puddle, a tongue so svelte, velvet
before fusing to steel,
teaching you reversal,
how to tread betrayal, ride luck
before lightning strikes, bringing rains.
Jen Karetnick is the author of three poetry chapbooks, includingLandscaping for Wildlife (Big Wonderful Press, 2012), and six other books. Her mango cookbook is due out from University Press of Florida in fall 2014. Her poems have appeared in journals including Barrow Street, Cimarron Review, The Greensboro Review, North American Review and River Styx. She works as the Creative Writing Director for Miami Arts Charter School; the dining critic for MIAMI Magazine; and a freelance food-travel writer for various publications including USA TODAY and TheLatinKitchen.com.
Image credit: CIA DE FOTO on Flickr