Whiteout

 

I have a hand stretched
somewhere beyond the fuzz
of a wrist severed by
snow. I have a body
beyond what I can see—I feel
pulse slowing, skin blueing,
legs wet, wading through mist.
How easy it is to lose myself
in April morning, one limb at a time,
a static feel climbing upwards
until I am just a mind
shivering in a bony jar,
waiting for May, a chance to
re-bloom.

 

 

 

 

About the Author

Cassie Hottenstein has a bachelor’s in English (with minors in creative writing and writing studies) from the University of North Florida. Now she lives in the Boulder, Colorado area.  Her stories and poems can be found in Inklette, PULP, Perversion Magazine, The Talon Review, Exothorpe, and the Tampa Review Online.  She has also worked as a ghostwriter and editor for the book Anyways, That’s My Story, as well as a reader for Fiction Fix.