Peter LaBerge

It is going to take everything I have
to make this home feel something

like a house. I am twelve years old.
This is the winter I cracked the river

into river, the bite into blood. The ice
writing my inside into a melody more

like throbbing, my tongue into a lake
with words to catch and fry. Above me

a warm crescendo of adults slurred
into movement. Near brittle, I am reaching

my artistic potential. Near winter, I let the moss
grow down my arms, let the stones

take refuge in my throat.