It is colder than before,
the other night
I complained of chills,
and frost embossed
on windowpanes;
that which they call cancer
eating away my insulation.
Bring me a second sweater,
my cherub. Wrap me
in scarves and a toque.
Clothe my feet in woolly socks
and give me tea to drink,
hot enough to warm my hands
when they hold the steaming cup,
but not so hot they burn
or bring me back to vibrant nights
we spent on other, happier things
and my hands cupped
your breasts and ass
and I knew nothing of the cold.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp