by Casie Dodd
They hid under the fire escape at night when they had nowhere else to go, afraid to sleep in snow. They played it cool despite the stenching stink of Street-Washed Clothes, that tool in claiming space when none can be your own. But then, by three a.m., cold air turned cruel and licked their ears until, in whispered prayer, traces of sneers forgotten soon emerged, just like the moon that left no light to spare.
Casie Dodd lives in Arkansas with her husband and two children. Her writing has appeared in Fare Forward, Ekstasis, Front Porch Republic, and other journals. She is currently in the MFA program at the University of St. Thomas (Houston).