In situ.

The frost is biting.

It has been a long winter

here, precisely here,

behind the endless forehead

and in the frostbitten feet.

A winter of limbs rigidly elongated,

with a shadow of the polar night lying asleep on it,

nipping into the  hypothermic eyes like a two-edged horizon

of the polar day.

You don't feel your toes,

because there is nothing to feel.

It has been a long winter

of a body condensed into a lump.

The frost is biting,

biting into the rough-textured dome.

In vitro.

On the tempered glass there is a swarm of

seraphim and cherubs humming  in a cloud of bluish smoke,

dancing  with sketches

of blooming ice flowers.

Living ice flowers.

Carnivorous.

A child's smiling face leans

against the burgeoning arctic flora.

Oh, the closeness of the  blossoms

slurping  me down into the nectar of dreams,

sweeping me away in reverie, bewitching me.

Oh, the closeness of the fit between my cheeks

and the wide-opened calyses.

Your kiss is cold,

living ice flowers,

yet so close to me.

I've grown attached to you,

living ice flowers,

skin to skin.

Bluish is the strain

of the smoke coming from the ice logs.

In utero.

Can you feel it, too? Try it for yourself.

I am drawing my feet closer to you.

Eppur si muove.

Can  you see the stake?

Untie your wrists.

Bonfire. Arch your body.

Lucija Lotus Mlinarič