Dead of Winter


Someday I’ll be gray and not white.
Just like blonde was prettier on the playground,
white is the bride of winter.
Gray makes the dead sick.
If my inner child is kidnapped,
I’ll freeze my nightmares to that ole pole.
I don’t know how to use a lighter
is what I’d say if asked.
Too jittery for birthday cakes
too tired for flashbacks.
Is it wicked to hate your becoming?
Wish it was my own?
Swear that I’d chip my tooth to get there?
Every poem is built with her.
Every age of my body
stacked against hers.




Kelli Lage is a poetry reader for Bracken Magazine. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominated poet. Lage is the author of Early Cuts and I’m Glad We Did This. Her work has appeared in Maudlin House, The Lumiere Review, Welter Journal, Orange Blossom Review and elsewhere. Website: