Window Light

by Emily Hana

Spine curving like a snow-heavy branch,
each vertebra interlocking with the cold wall’s stone,
feeling numb cement fingers along his back
through ten years of worn cloth.

He is invisible, a grey brick chameleon
with severed vocal cords.

He sees life’s soft glow framed with silver
and he remembers.

He remembers his wedding.
It was a snowy December afternoon;
she glowed brighter than the insomnious moon,
cheeks like crushed roses.

He remembers the birth of his daughter.
A crisp winter’s morning. Neve.
Years later, he drove her home, frostbitten,
as her tears turned to ice in the bleak air.

He remembers the letter
and the way he clung to each memory
as though it were not bible-thin paper
and the way each memory recoiled
like ice melting to water.