There is a train trestle my mother used to tell me stories about,
stretching the deep gorge of the Dog River.
I visited it as a teenager. Winter was just beginning to appear,
her fingernails gently running across my cheeks.

I went back, today. The trestle still stands,
sturdy and open to the wide space beneath.
I thought about jumping, but I heard a voice.

Winter, speaking in the gods’ tongue, barely recognizable
fluid, lyrical, said to me –

Do you want your bones to join the jagged broken trees,
eaten by the icy teeth of the river? 



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