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



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].

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