In Praise of the Deepest Winter

By Valin Paige

smoke whirls in the air, great swaths of grey

snatched up in the sharp winter sun, the chilled wind

clawing its way across the brick exterior of the bar

I push the cigarette into the bowl heavy with dust

& ash, which reminds me of pyre, perhaps baptism,

the way a man is made, can turn legend, like Hercules’s

skin goosebumps as he murders so many women

it must have stained the leaves of the forest red before

they are stripped away. I like to think Winter comes from this

– survivors with hands like slumbering bark. what a heavy word,

survivor, thick as the first snow, all definition devoid

of those we survive. we, those of the thickest roots circling

their way through frozen dirt. gritted permanence.  yes, winter

must come from this with its cacophony of battered snow.

here a cigarette is symbolic, caries its own meaning,

it is a good fuck you held between the teeth. passed around.

shared. my sibling buys a warm shot for me & we smile

that whiskey smile, a kind of rusted crown

at having been woven into someone else’s myth.

we laugh like winter, our voices a deep refusal

to not be cutting wind, even after. even after.

Valin Paige is a trans woman, poet, and essayist living in Saint Paul, Mn. Her writing largely focuses on topics like trauma, queer love, and how we can create the new queer mythos. Her work can be found in What Are Birds?, Freeze Ray Poetry, Crab Fat Magazine, Coffin Bell, Take a Stand, Art Against Hate: A Raven Chronicles Anthology as well as at Button Poetry and Write About Now.