Elisa Gonzalez is a poet, essayist, and fiction writer. Her work appears in Harvard Review, Lambda Literary Poetry Spotlight, Narrative, Prelude, The Shallow Ends, and elsewhere. A graduate of Yale University and the New York University M.F.A. program, she has received fellowships from the Kingsley Trust Association, the Norman Mailer Foundation and the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. She is a Fulbright scholar in the arts, and lives in Warsaw, Poland.
I sleep with vegetables
cradled against my skin
to keep them warm till morning
when I will step outside to axe
ice from the firewood
to hollow a tunnel
the shape of my body
for the snow climbs
in the night
as I shiver in quilts
straining
to summon to mind the place
I lived when I was very small:
lilac bush by the wire fence
shade of big maples
the feel of cool water
running out to muddy the earth
for summer afternoons we longed
for ice —
I start awake in fear
for they say when a person dreams
of pleasant chills
she’s on her way to freezing
straight to death
so I fall to dreaming of friends or neighbors
finding my blue body
bound as if for cooking
with these carrots and potatoes
picturing their faces
puzzlement
greed
It's the way of the wilderness
so they'll say so they're already saying