By Kira Cordova
Under warm cloud banks, wool scarves, and guantes,
They ask, incredulously, if I’m cold.
Here, cold’s sea air in rainy valley’s fold.
I smile, quiet; They don’t know what cold is.
What’s cold? Dizzy airs, atenuantes,
frozen white mascara when ice takes hold,
when dew falls as dust, the winter’s so bold
snow sizzles. The winds here rest, menguantes.
In my pueblo, this is late May weather–
for Gunnison, the cold is a credo.
The sun pierces. Clouds cave to cold’s pressure.
They say, no mientas. Don’t be a hero.
I grab some adjectives, find a measure
and laugh and state why no tengo frío.