Feel the wind. Chill factor, in my living room, 50 below, my bedroom, ice
castles in the bathroom. The Snow Queen in the tub, dirty soap
rings, married to zen. Empty
rooms. Cats bellies full of rotten
meat.
 
Trash cans overflow, beer breath asking for change
at the mailbox waiting for love
letters in return.
 
At night. My sheets black ice, sliding. Crashing into white
walls and frosted window
pain, I pick glass from my feet, barefoot
to honor god. Drug lords cash
my rent check.
 
Weekends. I slip away, on I-5
cutting pleasure, into pieces of
lemon pie, slipping into lips
swallowing bites whole.
 
Today. Eating paint chip
stew, tasting my own potato
famine, burning tea hisses. Water
drips from lead pipes.
 
I wish
I was a tourist taking pictures and hunting big game.
I wish
I could move into my arms calling
them home. Instead
 
I am trapped. In between heaters in the arctic, insanity in the
attic, and incense in
my armpit.
Iris Moon Benson is a senior studying Landscape Architecture and a student in the University’s Kidd Tutorial creative writing program. Any artistic submissions should be directed to [email protected].