You tell me the Inuit have 38 words for contortion,
my feet melt snow through soles.
Our snowman is a twist of ankles, of disjointed
twigs and discarded wool. His matchbox femur
protrudes like an early snowdrop, surprised
in its own vulnerability.
You tell me the Triads have 38 words for decapitation,
turning your coal eyes away.
Later, kids from the estate will kick
his face to powder, and we will reverently
place his heart in the bathtub,
keeping it topped up with chippings
of black ice.
You begin telling me what Gordon Brown
has 38 words for, but here you slip –
and the thought is muffled. You fumble
with a handful of snow, and say
you have 38 reasons to stay with me.
I cling to your sleeve as we cross the park,
and we part at the lamppost, its frost
disrupted by tongue prints. It is here
you tell me you have 39 reasons
to leave.
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