In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

56 TheWhiteout My brittle skin barely remembers color, unless it is the color of scars, a dull shine like ice. I can say nothing to the face in the mirror who is horrific and pale as midwinter, who clings to the raw memory of edges: how my lips bled in the cold, my knuckles cracked and bled. The kitchen smolders an early-morning blue which breaks itself in a slick of bergamot oil the color of sundown: as tea leaves swim cerulean in my saucer, I try to rein in chaos by counting like a child: when this ice melts,when those clouds pass,when this tea cools. I admit I was unprepared for so long a winter— for flat land meeting edgeless sky and no hope of covering ground, only horizon and more white horizon. I search for spring in the dregs and think, start now. Snow begins to fall. It does not stop. The mirror laughs and the clouds in my cup froth and choke like horses being run to death. I see now there is no rope long enough for chaos— it can run over blank ground forever—that the reins of need and want direct nothing, are only there to hold onto. ...

Share