Bare feet sink into the dusty depths of red carpet
unilluminated by cold sealight. All along this corridor of dirty windows
others sleep. Greeted by the moonlike glow of the ice machine, I kneel
make a frail vessel of my palms. Filled with dread for this thawing world
I dare not think of what waits beneath the frozen surface
The translucent spheres in my hands reveal nothing. Obscure eyes of the anaesthetised
I press them against my cheeks, a wintry blush absent emotion.
I walk down every street of Reykjavik planting ice. Softly softly pleading
spare me
from the horrors of spring
Kaisa Saarinen (she/they) grew up in the Finnish countryside and escaped as quickly as possible. She studied environmental politics and now works as a research analyst in London. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, Bitter Fruit Review, The Hungry Ghost, and elsewhere. @kuuhulluutta