Caged

In the winter, lovepipes crack.
Tears turn to wax,
clog my throat like pebbles.

Father brushes the snow from my hair,
tells me that I am no great miracle.
I cup a dove inside my roadmap palms,
onyx-eyed, unblinking,
but my muscles have lost all memory of offering.

Spring will come
when the tiredness begins in my arms.