His Name Was

Chavdor. and he smelled like I imagined Rawling's
Mundungas does, with dark set eyes and interest
at the world in them. Smelled like I imagine
Dosteoevsky, in the attic, under muddy sheets
in the cold still air of an apartment without
heat in the middle of January. There is nothing
like being cold all the way through your skin.
No sullen steady warmth from mushy pink
and blue organs. No sudden clench of uterus or
heart. Just cold. Better to be warm, baked and
lethargic then feel steeped in the quiet blanket of
cold like that. Once that cold has taken over
joy wouldn't feel the same I think: it would
sap the sense of bounce quicker than opium.
In their dances, their songs, their poetry:
there is the heavy sullen weight of the still
coldness.