Dying of Winter

Maybe one day they will find something to do
with all the winters stored in a body. Until then,

each minute equates syringe injecting splinter
straight to marrow, exposing how solitude slithers,

how it’s stored in the spine. I am snaking at the
neck with every shadow turned to stone. Unbecoming

to salt pillar with every yesterday I choose over
present. Somewhere, birds rehearse.

Rebecca Orten is a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore from Vermont. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Bennington College’s Young Writers Award, and local papers.

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