Sam Moe

The Winter House

We return to home woods, wool hugs, warm floors, oh how I press myself hard
against the wood to catch a glimpse of your bird. I hear your laughter from inside
the kitchen, how everyone loves you terribly, how golden you’ve become, but I

think you were always so true,

I hope I get you near me but I’ll have to wait until after dinner, when
everyone’s tucked away in pine cone beds, after the last deer and rabbit
pair have walked into moon, slow and with ease will return amber lights

and gold drinks

do you still care about me?

I hold your words in my mouth

Latch breath to hitched hands, I care for your love as I would a flame,
tease sugar baby beetles into waiting glasses, I am wax, I am inside
myself, looking for a way out. Past dusk you join me, cold outside so we
talk with our arms around our bodies, I see you seek
after birds, cloth-winged watchers in pine clusters, I’m folded

open-hearted               lying                as dangerous as I’ve always been

glowing red-coal crushed, pressed tea leaves against chin, catch
me in mittens, pull me against your better judgment. Rules
do not apply anymore, I told you what I told you that day true
midnight passed, knowing it wouldn’t be enough, for low inside
my thrumming treasure chest is my final dying secret,

a catch in the throat, a true ocean, I think you are the laughter and
the soft press between thighs, you antlered fool, won’t you say it
back, just once, call me rabbit, lungs, split, golden star cakes cool
on the racks, you are the wire and the fire, softer than the word January or starlight.

Snow is on my hair, cruel how I’ve lost strength and balance, I’m barely passing,
won’t you warn the forest?

If you leave I’ll need to hide among the pines           nettles sap sticks

overturned stones, shattered lake and frozen turtles, my life is cold,
asleep, late. I catch you looking at me but I can’t witness your mouth,
do my eyes laugh despite it all? Back inside I’m chilled to my ore, curled
blue sweater hangs over my shoulders. You lean close, doesn’t matter
I’m holding my breath, I want you here. Sometimes I’m a cruel button of
heat and distress, I’m enamored with winds, tides that twist foam into faces, the moon’s
craters and holes.

so

now what? I’m a catch meant for the fridge, I’m loose as true love’s
bite, I’m a latticework of sugar, golden only for you—tell me because I’ve
forgotten, are your eyes green or brown, do you love inside or outside
helplessness, bites or nail, after the storm breaks or during,
when the sky is filled with wet crows or empty.

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Sam Moe is a queer writer of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. She is pursuing a PhD in creative writing at Illinois State University. Her work has appeared in Overheard Lit Mag and Cypress Press. She received an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing residency in June 2021.