Poetry | Emily Adams-Aucoin

That winter, the house became our interpreter

and we spoke in such violent languages.

 

Everything we said was a poor translation of the truth. 

Our hands trembled but held their tongues.

 

Yes, it was snowing and that was beautiful, 

but everything was curled at the edges.

 

The oranges rotted from the inside so that when 

we went to peel them, our fingers sunk 

 

deep into the powdery, dark flesh.

You get the picture—the days were stained.

 

The geese became only geese again,

still holy but foreign to me.

 

I wanted to write myself into revelation—

this is an old longing, a tired one.

 

I didn’t shiver, but that doesn’t mean 

it wasn’t cold—

 

in those days, my breath billowed from me

as if I were a sorrow factory.

 

I confess: I didn’t leave because 

it was easier to stay.