How not to be afraid of hell

Look out the window: the sky

is purple. A hushed beginning

of winter. Pinprick snowflakes fall

past apartments and gas stations,

drift to the street, gust

through stunted gingkos and onto

a half-remembered lake. Freezing it solid.

I am five years old. I find a Mallard

frozen in the surface

of the water. January. Such precise

feathers. Intricate brown as vulnerable

as a wound. Shadows move across

the ice. His beak still closed.

Black eyes open. Tiny snowflakes

melt into my skin. Even then,

I was already teaching

myself not to cry. Walk away

from the duck’s green-jeweled

head. Fingers so cold. Close

the blinds, the evening comes too

close. See how a thing stops existing

when you look away.

Anna Leah Lacosse