Going Up

by Ruby Mason

Our December breath ghosting in each other’s eyes
(it is harder to forget words which you could see)

Winter, at seventeen
was inhaling the damp spice of books, books
the week of plans and interrogation
And Chai tea; milkless, sugarless
a cup for her, a cup for me
Black ice; that girl I used to know
who broke both legs because someone­
was not paying attention
on a misty night
Heating on; us recalling the places of warmth
in this cold blooded house
Older now; the first snow day when I
did not even want to go out.

(I think I drank this year a little too quickly and
it seems like the clock is starting to spin)

then Christmas again; and what they never told
our restless generation
was keep hold of every childish fascination
because Growing Up is best in moderation