A mind of winter

I recently subscribed to The New-York Ghost, a free newsletter that, every once in awhile, arrives via email. The most recent offering contained a poem by Aimee Kelley that I couldn't help but save and reread again and again. I post it here, which is hopefully not a violation of some sort.

At any rate, if you like what you see, you can subscribe (it's free) to The New-York Ghost by sending an email to newyorkghostATgmailDOTcom.



Dick Cheney’s home is only visible
in winter. Those months he sits
underground dreaming

of camouflage, tree leaves, and heavy
boughs. He weeps, stain on his pocket
square. Upstairs his wife

plays piano, completes paint by
numbers, one after another, each brighter
than the last. She neglects

the housekeeping, waves over her
tea at tourists outside in this, her favorite
season. Below, he wanders

by flashlight, running a finger across
lids of preserves, opening orange, never
strawberry. Sitting on water

drums, potable, he eats astronaut
ice cream, testing how slowly he
can chew. He hears snow

falling on his driveway and melting
in a moment. To have a mind of winter,
he thinks. A breach.

—Aimee Kelley