you left the back gate swinging open

now there’s snow to fill the empty lot

a set of painted chairs

only small enough for children

garbage bags dressed in white cloaks

like some kind of funeral procession

for my hoping

tell me,

is it because winter is the colour of heaven?

or does it all come down to this hole in me?

does the whistle of the wind

simply remind me of your shotgun?

father,

this is the only way i can see you now,

watch you through the white blur—

the tooth of an icicle

hanging

from the mouth of an eavestrough

crying in slow motion

and there’s something so nostalgic

—sickly warm—

in the kiss of your knuckles

cold against my cheek

so, go ahead,

please

press your fingertip into my bruise

until the purple bleeds right through

and i’m on my knees

guts in my hands

back gate

closed

eyes

wide open

Kat Abrams (she/her) is a 23-year-old writer and artist from Parkdale, Toronto. Her work often tackles themes of chronic illness, domestic abuse, and misogyny.