Guest Post: Cold

By my Chicago girl.

Step out and
lungs gasp but

throat closes tight at the no, no,

no! of the cold,

and for a moment I am breathless.

It slowly slides through all
my layers,
a solid sheet of pin-pricking––

You don't belong here, my
body moans,
and for a moment I understand
that despite my honey-dark hair,
my blue eyes, my fair skin meant to drink in
this thin northern sunlight,
far,
far,
far back,
my family lived in Africa.

And it's quite laughable,
really,
the endeavors of
down and
wool and
leather,


for all never quite make up
for my heritage.