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Cold hands. Warm cunt. Standing on your porch. Snow

fall at midnight. Kissing. Your mother fuming;


watching through the dark living room window

as my fingers trace their way home. Working


down the front of your jeans. Finding the O

of your cunt. Wriggling in. Your mother’s hate


runs deep. She calls me depraved Morozko.

Old Man Frost. “We do more than masturbate,”


you told her. Now she’s leery as you drench

your crotch. Eyes closed. Thighs rubbing together.


Blushing at my chill touch. At what she don’t

know. Which is how you cum: swaying, teeth clenched,


in the dark snowfall, dazed each time winter

sinks, starts to play with what others won’t.



Morozko is the name used in a Russian fairy tale for the Winter King, whose love, they say, brings exquisite death.