by Mary Anne Clarke

I don’t want to get out of the shower.
When I do, the bullying power of
Winter will hit me like a football mis-aimed.
Because outside is unthinkable, so I have twined
Myself round this one jet that is warm,
Like a flower climbing away to the sun.
I turn my foot soles up to the stream;
They’ve been too cold all my life now, it seems.
I can’t bear to step out into winter’s harsh system
Of air snares that grab my muscles and twist them.
I will stay in my cell of a safe warm dream;
I will keep drawing faces in the door’s steam.