My best friend gave me
all her “women” for my journey.
A big stack of poetry collections,
to work through in the tearful nights,
building strength as I build endless fires,
for the endless cold.
I dog-eared a few pages,
and made notes in margins,
but it’s only pencil.
In the mornings, I read rupi kaur,
and push open the dirty curtains
to let the sun come up
through the frosted windows.
I brew tea on the propane stove
because the fire takes too long and I’m too cold.
But at night,
by the light of candles, flames dancing
in the draft,
I read Sylvia Plath.
And I let the darkness settle
where it will.