It is the thing of bones –
****** dry of marrow –
That breathes ice and whispers –

You’ve felt It near
The warmest hearth –
That chill which twines
Up the back and settles
About the neck – choking –
Writhes Its way between vertebrae –
Imbeds within the spine –

You’ve seen how It drags
Its engorged belly over
Threadbare carpets
To rest Its head on wet kindling
During frigid nights –
Props open Its mouth
With stale loaves of bread
And waits –

You’ve heard It gnaws
On the nubs of bleeding
Nails – amputates fingers
With ground-down teeth
Flat and yellow in Its maw –
Cauterizes the wounds
With frostbite –

It will visit you
On your last bed –
Seeping through too-thin sheets
And stealing a face
You don’t recognize –
You’ll think you heard it say:
My name is –