by Heather Cousins

Icicles, the teeth of winter, hang in hard lines
along each house. The bigger the icicles,

the poorer the house: our house
has the biggest icicles in the village.

Sometimes the ice claws at the lines,
and the beak of a strong wind

grabs a weighted cable.
The hundred other houses in the village

disappear. We are alone
in hills of darkness. The aloneness

goes on for miles and years. We wait,
listening to the fat wind.

We light candles against the nothing
that is everywhere. Our faces

are golden, full of caverns. Nothing exists
but the holes and lights in our faces.

Heather Cousins holds an AB from Bryn Mawr College, an MA from the Writing Seminars of Johns Hopkins University, and a PhD from the University of Georgia. Her first book, Something in the Potato Room, was published by Kore Press in 2009. Originally from Bear Lake, Michigan, she currently lives in Georgia.