By Kira Cordova

Bilbao, northern Spain. Photo: 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.