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New Year<\/strong><\/p>\n Write to me and tell me how you long for snow, the crisp white <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Zelda Chappel<\/strong> would be an intrepid explorer if courage and money permitted.\u00a0 Instead she writes, often on the backs of things.\u00a0 Most recently her poems can be found in a handful of publications including Popshot, Bare Fiction<\/em> and HARK<\/em>.\u00a0 She is the co-editor at Elbow Room<\/em> and tweets as @ZeldaChappel.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n The Other Girl<\/strong><\/p>\n The girl who came to see you earlier herself with one hand to railings. Kept When doorways gaped, throwing warm of armchairs, trays of bright sherry The Christmas lights dragged her free of late-night shopping. Listed along While you reversed out of the mews, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nblank of new beginnings. I’ve watched you, enjoying the poise
\nof waiting, the rough edge of the cusp of it grinding at our skin
\n’til we’re raw with it. I’m giddy with the drug of it, want you
\nto be too. In the coming days I’ll be looking constantly to the sky
\nfor anchorage, unable to predict her moods. I’ll learn to absorb
\nthe grey slate wash and squalid days of pale blue light, decipher
\nthe punctuation of birds coming home, leaving young. I know
\nyou’ll be listening as I devour the silence of cold, cold air, trying
\nto pack it away in my abdomen so I can use it later when time
\nis hot and frantic. You’ll like the way the cold stabs at the heart
\nof us when we’re fighting it. I want you to think of us encrusted
\nwith frost, cracking and spidery across every inch of limb until
\nwe’ve refracted every piece of light we can. I want you to feel it
\nwhen it melts, the sun as it moves into spring, the dead skin
\nwe’ve slipped and left for ground. I want us to count up all our ends
\nthen bury them with the bulbs, long for the bloom, feel the wait.<\/p>\n
\ntrailed around these busy streets after
\nshe left your building. Crept along
\nthe inside edge of pavements. Steadied<\/p>\n
\nher eyes down, except for glances over
\nher shoulders, to check black-coated
\nothers didn\u2019t walk too near behind her.<\/p>\n
\nyellow arcs across the paving stones,
\nshe snuffled close, snorting the scent
\nof overcoats draped over the backs<\/p>\n
\nand chocolates; scuttled across stiff
\nWelcome mats, while automatic doors
\nslid open. Closed again. Let no one in.<\/p>\n
\nof the ground. Loosed at last, she drifted
\nand bounced like a grey dust ghost
\nagainst the crowd\u2019s puffa jackets, bags<\/p>\n
\nbetween lanes of traffic; hopped across
\nthe central reservation, pulled on
\na jerky silver thread towards the lanterns.<\/p>\n
\ndipped your headlamps southward,
\nshe climbed up on the rail, lifted her face.
\nHer eyes, they said, were lit up, shining.<\/p>\n