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Foot and a Half Frozen

Foot and a Half Frozen


We talk about it
like it’s a switch:

We can just stop holding the world
at arm’s length,
or trying to dig out
some part of ourselves,
or waiting for that someone
to love us

I’ve never found a switch
labeled “Start loving self.”

In my experience, feelings keep time
by their own moon.

In my experience,
it’s more like a lake,
foot and a half frozen;
a great fuzzy
staring at me
from under my feet.

Like I’m supposed to dig
with my fingers.

Like if I broke through,
and went down there
to join it

I could breathe.



self-portrait-20161022-01Adam Rubinstein is a poet, photographer, editor, designer, birthfather, tinkerer, and composting enthusiast. He has published many chapbooks, and a few books. For much of the 2000s he wore every hat at Destructible Heart Press, a gourmet mostly-chapbook publisher with a yen for the surreal. In 2006 he began writing a novel in poems about the end of the world, which keeps happening in his hometown of Wellesley, MA. He’s currently finishing a book of poems about power, sex, and depression, called Couchfucker. He mostly travels by rail; loves making books, sorbet, and hummus; and finds a deep satisfaction in helping travelers regain their equilibrium. // //