protagonist

I am the protagonist in this brief life and the narrator.

Look at me, sketching out this plot.

My hands shake in shuddering cold,

thumbs blue and stiff, I suck at my fingertips.

I live cold and far and empty: the sky bleeds out its color,

anemic trees match the air.

Lake Michigan murmurs in the east and it whispers under ice,

like faces turning, asking questions,

and I lift my hands, defensive.

I'm the protagonist but I live in the passive voice,

wrap myself around description and watch the arcs,

the climaxes and dénouements.

I coax my life with language, talk myself into existence,

the colors, the sounds and smells.

My stories slide around my body like caramel:

they wind around my wristbones and lie dormant on my lips,

but I cannot get them off me.