At first he told us
not to write about snow.
I hadn't thought of that;
the idea was born, I looked it over.
But I thought I'd rather write about you.
I've tried to come up with something
worth saying, it's harder than I thought.
Maybe it's the way you are
sitting next to her.
(her being that girl you used to see--
she always stared at me,
or rather us--across the class.)
You always called her a dirty slut.
I guess that's what I am now--
I, the ice girl who never let you touch her
because your fingers were fire--
and it's my turn to stare
at you, across the room,
observe the colorful clothes you never wore
when you were with me,
and try to think of something to write
that's not about snow
or sand
or even blood.