HIS ICY FICKLE HEART
Patsy Covington

He nibbles on my toes and rolls across my meadow, but when I open the door and let him in, he cools the fire in my stove, and his lips are chilly on my fevered brow. To save myself I build my fire bigger but as soon as the flames are licking at my skin, I dare him to come closer, again. I unwrap myself and fling my robe onto the chair, but he’s frightened by the warmth and escapes through the cracks in the floor. He leaves my skin chilled and my heart longing for warmth again. He’s a fickle lover at best, but when he’s not here, in the hottest part of summer, I long even for his cool face, thinking I can wrap my heart in chenille and cover my roses against the chill, but he creeps in on stealthy feet and catches me unaware—all bare skinned, with petals toward the sun—and once again I’m laid unprotected against his icy fickle heart.

© Patsy Covington

Patsy Covington (PatsyCovington@cox.net) spent most of her life in south Louisiana. She can be read in various places including Gator Springs Gazette, Wild Violet, Riverbabble and Right Hand Pointing. She has upcoming fiction in Prairie Dog 13, a new print venture.

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