The Winter in the Summer

Years ago, in the grip of São Paulo's summer, I asked a dozen friends to stare at an ice cube melting, skinning its integrity against the heated topology of release and afterwards when Andre asked me why I think I dodged the question maybe, maybe the way a burlesque queen might when asked why they do what they do

The ice field covers the rooftops, the clocks stone under frost. The hedgehog rounds the corner of the patio, fog in the breathing. The elderly woman unfamiliar in her mirror pulls woolens from plastic bags, lies down five minutes to breathe a winter that is not her own. The nonexistent ball of snow falls in the summer stroke of lightning. Between my teeth, a snowflake shatters.