Nothing but winter in my cup
By Alice George

      but then
she comes climbing out the manhole
wreathed in steam mouth a red
       message and she’s sobbing
              like a siren for mama.

When I pin spring close
her breasts press like yeast rolls
       and somehow daffodils still wet from their low prison
              insist between us and

she must be bleeding
       from somewhere because I taste
               iron and honey.

When she starts to talk
my ears learn such a wild high humming
       I forget almost everything
             got wrecked when she was away.

Alice George lives in Evanston, Illinois, and teaches as a visiting poet in area schools and libraries. She served as an Editor of RHINO for 10 years and is now of the Advisory Board of that award-wining magazine. Her first collection of poetry, entitled This Must Be The Place, will be published by Mayapple Press in late 2008, early 2009.

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