13. ef u, dr. raynaud
sometimes it feels as if
i’ll never be able to
warm myself up enough
to feel my extremities —
wet cold fills in
the tips of my fingers, my toes
creeps into my core
and settles
hereditary,
this chronic overreaction
a phenomenon
blood vessels sniff a chill
and (hysterical old ladies)
shut down, close off completely
so the white hot ice can
take over, joint by joint
until i’m bumbling
blue purple, numb
if only i could
convert this regular
system failure
into a pithy metaphor
transcendent image
or inspired idea
to take the edge off
but each attack
(more every year)
just proves that i’m
an eventual corpse
that death lives
all around us
like april’s icy rain
and always finds a way
inside
