At thirty-three I transformed into the sorceress of eternal summer.
It’s cliché to say a man broke the spell—that I couldn’t find the way
out of winter myself, but he was wildfire burning down
whatever icy walls and gates I had built around me.
Spring was so subtle, I didn’t feel the snow begin to thaw,
notice the buds take root and bloom until a canopy of poppies,
hollyhocks and roses surrounded me. I was deep into summer,
engulfed in thoughts of him, craving his breath on my neck—
his hands on my hips—his lips. I dreamt of blue heat licking my skin.
I was in his bed the night winter came in July,
reminding me how cold could bring disaster.
He became crisp like autumn mornings;
I wondered if my light and sultriness
could spread through my fingertips when I placed
them on his chest—melt the frost that was forming,
could keep snow season away for good.
Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in Rose Quartz Journal, Awkward Mermaid, Spider Mirror Journal, Mojave He[art] Review, and Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine. She graduated from the University of East Anglia with her MA in poetry, and has been shortlisted twice for the Eyewear Publishing Fortnight Poetry Prize. She has work forthcoming in Mojave He[art] Review, Sixfold, Pussy Magic, and Midnight-lane Boutique.