pure in winter hips delia tratorria She has no womb but a place I crawl, to exhale, squeeze my stomach airless, and warm her from the inside, push out the goose bumps that pimple her thighs, rest my head on the slope of her hip bone, leathered with organ flesh and creaking gently with her walking. I am blind as bones are blind. Her scaffold joins piece by piece to erect the form of her trunk, secure her dangling arms. Somewhere outside is the snow that I don’t feel in here; but if she were to turn inside out, I would be carried off in the frost while she felt warm like I do. Instead she lowers herself, and my body turns on its side with her. I am cradled in the hammock of her pelvis. She curls, like the cup of my ear.