Poetry
Marchell Dyon
Photo Credit: Geoff Bosco/Flickr (CC-by)
The Winter House
All the stars are frozen
The town crier blows heated air from
His lungs into his frostbitten fingers
Shaking them as if somehow
Freeing his fingers from the cold
He cries winter is approaching all is well
Even in their slumbering heat
Bodies press together not out of love
But out of necessity
Even in dreams they hear him wail
Through the night snuggled in their false security
The last log burns maxing out its warmth
There’s only the distance of their bodies
There are only inches of cotton blend between their naked selves
They will not share, separate blankets now,
Soon separate beds across town
One in the sight of the town crier
The other only in earshot
News about the winter house travels faster than light
Other ears like deer perk up so soft and so velvet
To catch snippets of sound, listening for cold words shouted
Ringing like church bells
Before the silence
Without prayers, they climb into bed,
They are past redeeming
Their anger bathes in silver shadows
Shadows glistening like tinsel
Time moves in and out
So, does the snow
The Winter Train
Always, she imagines how she would go
Tonight, this thought came to her
Swifter than other nights
The thought that she should leave him
She saw herself mentally writing
Her escape letter
Her letter would simply read leaving,
No more black eyes, forever gone, Jill,
She would then pass unafraid on the winter train
Dazing up at the moon, watching trees bare white
Happy to count the stars,
Happy to see them twinkle deep in the night sky
Happy just to be rid of him
Happy to be free
To watch
The snow falls like she does now
For now, she will be better
Next time,
She will be quicker, more agile in her steps
She mumbles this frozen prayer on the wind.
She believes this as she turns
Her frosty key into the front door lock.
She will continue to try to make herself invisible
As not to enrage his heated fists.
Fists he had promised to keep frozen
Time and time again never to thaw
Here again in this prison she called home
She knows now she haven’t yet
The strength to leave him
Her thoughts of leaving on the winter train
Keeps her warm at night, keeps her sane,
Keeps her alive…
So, another winter, she will dream of leaving
Till her heart and mind tells her it’s time to go
On nights like these
Still she imagines herself moving fast in slow motion
inching passes rooftops
Sugared with just enough frost, just enough snow.
Clocks
She watches
As I wind the figurative and literal clocks
Time to us is precious
Years are blessings
But some days aren’t always miracles.
She breathes with every second
Her heartbeat is like a stopwatch rhythm fading
Her breath is a cold smoke rising in the air
Mother and daughter now life companions
As for the clocks, I wind them tight
To get us through the night
In her voice frosty as hinges
She chimes many thanks to me
I answer her by covering her chilled feet
Again, with her electric blanket
There aren’t many hours left to my gray companion
I savor these moments
Before all clocks stop
And I’m left alone
With only the companionship of silence
Marchell Dyon is a poetry enthusiast. She enjoys reading poetry wherever she can find it. Once she was nominated for the best of the net prize for her poem “As I Stand by My Window Dreaming of Falling.” Her most recent publications are Toasted Cheese Lit Journal, Trouvaille Review and Medusa’s Kitchen. She has constantly developed her craft despite having both schizophrenia and bipolar disorders. She continues to write in Chicago IL. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com
