i start to write on sisters, the blood and the soul-braided.
but it’s lost. erased.
i start to remember, how you do the dishes when i cook; how the apartment feels alive when the lights go out.
but i’m distracted. displaced.
just when i can start to taste inspiration, it slips.
have you ever felt a roof of ice slide slowly to the ground? the noise is deafening, the anxious inhabitants wait for the crack.
it always melts.
what lies frozen under this block?
what will trickle back to earth when the sun reverses the freezing?