Destined to embrace warmth in the end,
snowflakes fall to the nape of my neck
ceasing to exist.
I see the weathered faces of people I knew
spread across the white forest
bearded with lichen,
blanketed in moss.
At a certain temperature, wounds reopen.
The slits on my skin
become pink and soft.
I rest at sundown
dreaming of the ruby in the moon
like a boyish smile
pinned to the heavens.
I wonder if
in the middle of a winter’s evening
anyone might think of me.
If I were only as perfect
from my conception to my death
then broken
to the simplest molecules.
Ervin Brown
Ervin Brown is originally from New York. His prose and poetry have appeared in Willows Wept Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, and Wild Roof Journal, among others. He has an MFA in Writing from the University of New Hampshire.