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𝓘𝓶𝓸𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓮 𝓜𝓪𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓪

𝓢𝓨𝓝𝓔𝓢𝓣𝓗𝓔𝓢𝓘𝓐;
𝓐 𝓟𝓞𝓔𝓜 𝓕𝓞𝓡 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓛𝓞𝓥𝓔𝓡 𝓘 𝓓𝓞𝓝’𝓣 𝓗𝓐𝓥𝓔

I was playing Red Rover with two fire trucks: I was stomping through thin ice so my feet could get a grip as I ran; I was slipping and falling and getting back up. Just once, to catch my breath, I sat cross legged in the snow, and I knew I wouldn't feel cold if I cooled off—if my body's temperature was the same as the air's—so I waited, and then I was sorry that it felt so good to freeze. Eventually the trucks barrelled past me and the man hanging off the back of one blew steam in my direction and I was grateful, and then I felt cold again.

I began the walk home. I suppose the trucks never called my name at all, I just mistook their siren’s song. Winter craves intimacy: I stuffed my hands into my pockets and pretended they were being held. I imagined how romantic it would be if the wind swept me off my feet; I focused on the sound of something moaning in its grasp. To warm up, I thought of touch: it's like when I think of the moon and I can feel the tides, or when I think of the sun and start to feel hot. My eyelids are sweating, I said, like there was anyone else around, I’m not crying. My lashes froze together so I could hardly see; I didn’t need to, I guess, I could feel the ground beneath me. I wrenched them open anyway. I bore my pupils into the road and considered whether I had time for a nap in another drift.

I like tire tracks because they remind me that someone else has been here before: maybe a carpool taking it slow to savor the company. Crunching sounds are silvery and the smell of winter is so blue it shines. Heat is relative: when I’m inside the warm again I’ll take a bath that smells like peppermint and listen to a song that tastes like spring, or spring water. Maybe I’ll masturbate. Definitely I’ll go to bed alone.

Imogene Mahalia (she/they) is an accused poet and a triple threat (biracial, non-binary, bisexual) based in Montreal. Formally, she is a voyeur of the illusory; she writes personal essays peppered with lies. Off-paper, most people call her Emmie.
Her work can be found in Joyland Magazine, Bullshit Lit, and Maybe Mag (forthcoming: JAKE). She was honoured to read at the first Plateau Symposium: you can listen to the recording here.