THE WINTER YOU LIVE ALONE
SARAH BLAKE

          Is a winter of glass,
a wish, a being thrown into.

          Is a strong drink
on an empty stomach.

          Is a repeated afternoon
of seeking in the dark,
flannel corners of thrift shops.

          Is a confrontation with your blood.
A habit of jaywalking to break
the deep quiet of the city.

          Is desire for the static of strange sleeves
to graze in the night.

          Is knees under chin
on the kitchen floor, absorbing

residual heat from the stove.

          Is two grey hairs
and love letters to the neighbour’s dog,
who sings to you through the walls.

          Is cash-only.

          Is forgetting your face.          

          Is a whisper
to no one, to everyone,
in the snowy street.


Sarah Blake is a Creative Writing M.F.A. candidate at The New School, as well as an editorial assistant for LIT Journal. She divides her time between Toronto, where she was born and raised, and New York City. Her poetry has been published in Chronogram Magazine.