A fire on the hearth, lantern by the bed,
kitchen candelabra in a draft.
Finger of light on an arm of the bench.
One of the cats watching it beckon.
We have met the lion of March.
Today, her tongue abrades my back.
Outside, excuses pile up.
Snow like lamb’s wool
sliding down windows.
Posts with stockings about their ankles.
I tuck my hands into my sleeves.
Ravens carry twigs
to their nest in a double-headed cedar.
We who are paired. Even his lips are cold.
Thanks to beams and rafters,
the house becomes a whale.
The miles of intestines facing Jonah.