Poetry – Page 9

Pruned Fingers by Bee Lotz

You stare out your window
frost gripping the edges of the glass,
like how you gripped his cotton shirt to keep him
above the icy water.
You shut your eyes tight, tugging your sweater.
Water droplets fall from the dark knit pattern.
The weakening pit in your chest shrivels.
The home you shared, overlooking his grave taunts you
The crackling ice sounding more and more like laughs
and shrieks from a successful reaper.
Collapsing on the floor,
your body curls like swirls of water down a drain,
ears filling with phantom water, deafening
your pleads for the shattering ice to be silenced.
For his cries to be silenced.
Your fingertips raw,
But bitter water bit the wounds to win.
You hold your hands out,
shaking and pruned.
Pooled on the cold floor you lay, 
numbness creeping like ice
into your regretful pruned hands.
You knew the ice was too thin.
You didn't stop him.