The Warrior

This winter, icicles hang from our roof like daggers.

The light, hitting their long, slender sides,

bounces into my eyes.

A dagger like this belongs in the hand of a warrior.

I hold it in my small, cold hand,

clutched so tight my knuckles turn white.

Last week, I found a bird, dead, out by the apple tree.

Today, dagger in hand, I seek revenge,

and stalk the neighbor’s cat.

But the dagger is melting.

I let the water run to the tips of my fingers

where it hangs, then drops.

I brush my hands against my purple snow pants,

wiping the water off as if it were blood.