Poetry by Emma Lee

                        Anssi Koskinen CC



My Season: Winter

My winter is not the glow
of celebration and presents,
but the fringes, the crisp frosts,
the damp that creeps into bones
and settles, displacing memories
of spring. The year finishing,
not in a burst of colour and renewal,
but in a blank erasure of snow,
the dark left by a spluttered firework,
a habit of muteness born
from being wrong, stupid, worthless,
those words presented as absolutes
designed to stunt growth, seed
shivers of discomfort.

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The basement bar's carpet

The carpet has a colourful, intricate pattern that could hide a multitude of stains.

She checks her sleeves cover her pale scars. There's a strip of cellophane in the rug
that catches the blinking fairy lights, giving the impression of a live flame, except for the unlit bulb, a frosty flower, triggering a memory of Christmases past, a damp fog rather than the glitter of snow. 

"What are you doing for the holidays?" his question was to break the ice. He waits. 

She's a burden, not a gift. Maybe that decision should be his. The carpet's fake flame wavers. 

The bar falls silent: the countdown to midnight begins.

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Emma Lee’s publications include “The Significance of a Dress” (Arachne, 2020) and "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, 2015). She co-edited “Over Land, Over Sea,” (Five Leaves, 2015), is Poetry Reviews Editor for The Blue Nib, reviews for magazines and blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com. FB: https://www.facebook.com/EmmaLee1. Twitter: @Emma_Lee1.