Extremity

Pity my cold feet in bed.
The doctor says I need warm blood
down there, gives me a tonic
that burns in my guts
not my feet. My toes curl
in the blankets like French knots
I used to pull so tight

the thread broke. My fingers dig
into my stomach. Small wonder
my dreams are of frost-bite,
my toes dropping off like ruined berries,
my fingers strewn over the snow.

When I wake I work hard until noon.
I collect every nail paring,
skin faint as snow on the pumice stone.
Even the hair woven into my comb
I can spin into strong, silver thread
And I gather the stubs
f the candles from every long evening
like eggs in my apron. A cup of tea

and I sit down to sew
nothing. I watch the gray sky
through the eye of each needle
my fingers have ever held up to the light
and I wait for the mousetrap to spring

in the pantry where peaches still cling
to their stones. I have made my house ready
for ice. Every hole's stuffed
with cloth. Every window's nailed shut.
When the sun sets I turn the key
twice in the lock, blow
the candles out. Nothing can come
to me now. I have no blessings to count.

I count my cold fingers and toes.