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  • By Evan Schmitt


Upon the platform, boots caked in black ice,

a cloying gesture, stand there on the salt.

I dare not stray, confess my only vice:

your hand, the key, my heart’s a sacred vault.

Entwined like flickering jewels upon the crown

we vanish like a vamp into the lake.

Snuffed flames against the waves we plummet down

and clutch the harbor’s edge until we ache.

We are treasure, we are rum run below,

a target for St. Valentine, I fear.

No god nor man can melt this falling snow

so twist, green river, push my lover near.

Steel and stone together rise from fire.

Crystals freeze the tears from my desire.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Evan Schmidtt is a writer, creative director, and instructor working in Los Angeles and Nashville. She has a background in comedy from The Second City in Chicago and holds a BA in Writing and Producing for Television from Columbia College Chicago. Her lecture, "How to Write Female Characters," has been presented at Columbia University in New York.

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