Cold Poem by Sana Olivia Hernandez
Cold
My skin prickles.
I can't feel my fingertips.
I am cold.
Either it's the temperature.
Or I'm dying,
Or I'm old.
I can feel the chill in my bones.
I'd be crazy to eat an ice cream cone.
Or so I'm told.
It seems nice outside.
I'd like to go,
Play in the snow.
But I can't.
I have a cold.
I'd hug to stay warm,
Or accept your homemade soup.
I'd let your love warm me up.
But I refuse.
My heart is too cold.
As you can see,
Cold has manifest mastery.
It comes in many forms.
In you and in me.
God, I'm cold!
-SOH
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 10:42:45 PM # 1.0.0.1119
This poem won't let me sit still to read it. Reading it is not the typical abstract experience of seeing letters form words which form sentences which form ideas that inform the mind. NO. This poem is a wild encounter with a volatile experience that goes from the purely physical sensation to psychological sensation to memory to I don't know what! But it doesn't stay even and still. Its dynamism is exciting. When I finished reading it I saw your note about writing it in a cold classroom. And I can see how writing such volatile images could generate imaginative heat.