OVERWINTERING

it’s the wet season when i want nothing 

more than to strip my skin and submerge 

in idleness like a koi fish burrowed
in soft sediment.

          i used to think when the lake
         froze over, the fish froze with it, thawed 

          again in spring— a childish sentiment.

          in winter, most fish go deep down 

          beneath a layer of ice, reduce activity, slow 

          their heart rates.

when my heart rate slowed
and the paramedic wouldn’t let me leave 

until it picked up again, she flinched
at my cold hands. i was alive and
i was in shock.

          i used to imagine how
         long months passed for the rest of the world 

          spare the frozen fish.

as an adult, i remember this 

while trying to find the language 

for trauma.

          some butterfly species enter diapause,
         a dormancy which can occur in any life stage.

this was supposed to be a poem about fish.

          some overwinter in hollow trees, 

          rocks, wood piles, buildings.

but i could never look down at that ice 

without my reflection staring back.

          some species fly somewhere warmer. 

          some can only swim deeper.

i cannot strip this skin.
i am still waiting for spring.

          a pinned tortoiseshell butterfly 

          looks like a red sun frozen mid-sky.

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Liza Rose is an American poet and artist from rural Pennsylvania. She currently lives in Manhattan, where she is a creative writing MFA student at New York University. She received both her BA and MA from The Pennsylvania State University. She is the author of the poetry collection Motion as the Thing That Separates the Living From the Dead. When she is not creating art, she can be found making Pinterest fashion boards, watching horror films, baking, listening to Lana Del Rey, or playing Stardew Valley.