by Brianna Ballard
I wear pyjama shorts in February.
Candy stripe, lemonade stand,
cigarette-in-July type shorts.
Sleep is like an old wool sweater.
Sweat on my neck, peeling lips
An itch- cooled by a walk
in the winter around my bed.
My floor is chilled, wind solidified,
while my sheets are the burning pavement
of California’s Highway 1.
Cracking the window
lets the north into my room,
fills the space with quiet night
and the blanket of the deep freeze.
My flimsy, summertime shorts
are a layer too littleand
I’m a shivering, black-iced,