By Anna Buynova
Dad gasps— his little girl in a dress
swings the door and leaps
into icy air to see the thermometer
(its Fahrenheit side, not Celsius).
What are you doing? It’s winter, stupid!
he yells. I dart up the stairs and curl
in my closet. He’s never called me
stupid before.
Dad’s breath draws close.
A dry I’m sorry on the other
side of the room. I don’t look up
from my righteous cocoon.
I cannot tell him that to undo
his distance, he needs
to hold me close like I hold
my orange plush bunny.
He cannot tell me that his folks
wore fur in this cold, afraid to coddle
or cuddle, didn’t expect the weather,
or the world, to be on their side
Anna Buynova has spent most of her life between Russia, where she was born, and the U.S., where she has lived for many years. She is now based in Seattle with her husband and two sons. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Cathexis Northwest Press, The Dewdrop Literary Magazine, Wild Willow Magazine, and Tar River Poetry. Find her on Instagram under annabuynova_writes.