The Cold

The virus traveled to her blood
after her fingertips brushed the hem

of his coat, he was leaving again
in the middle of the night, the baby

crying, the heat turned off a week ago –
she had collected matches, tried

to empty the throat of the fireplace,
tried to take out the bricks blocking

the chimney with her sewing scissors
and a butter knife so she could pile

a chair or two, perhaps some of his
books, into the fat black mouth
unhinging its jaw like a cartoon snake.