Winter for a Moment Takes the Mind
{An Umbrella Special Feature}


Michelle Estile

 has worked as a tomato picker, a music teacher, a bookstore clerk, and a saxophonist. She enjoys her current work incarnation as a counseling social worker in Athens, GA. She lives in nearby Watkinsville where her many lives inform her writing.

Her work has appeared in the online magazine Six Little Things.

 




—Back to “Extra” Contents—

Static

You burst in full of hot laughter frosted
in the night air. Frozen stars lit the crow-wing
shine of your head. When you shook snow
from your shoulders I remembered my father.
Some nights he brought rain home in his hair.
His kisses glazed my forehead with cool shine
while I counted goosebumps into sleep.

A tiny blue spark licked from your fingers
to the doorknob. We both squealed at the snap.
As you leaned in for a kiss I thought
I smelled ozone, tasted tinsel. Shivered.

Every night since I have put on wool socks,
the green Shetland sweater you like,
and the knit cap you left behind.

I have walked heavy and slow, dragging
your absence along the carpet,
then gathering you up again with
each electric nip at the door.



 
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