I stitch your pale mountains in a glacial quilt
so nothing can keep you warm. I swan all over
you in the night, my neck a snaked disaster,
my mouth dry and drier. I make your perfect
likeness in a lake of my own undoing, a lake
so pure it cannot freeze until I throw something
into it. Something large like a horse or you.
There you both are, you and your reflection
in the lake, joined at the toes, balancing away
from each other from your smallest common
point. I rotate your symmetry into something
unrecognizable. I quilt you into your own
quilt. You pale in perfect landscape. Now I
know where you will never not be waiting
when I come to call.
Men are not Mirrors
There is the movement I make and the shadow
of that movement and the memory of movement
which stays in the room for a while like lights-gone-off
burned into the backs of your eyelids. Not all scars
are permanent. Maybe I am walking at a pace
that makes me invisible to you. Maybe I have fixed
my hair a few times. For work I dress chin to ankle
and still my body can be too much. Still the old man
at the supermarket insists on bringing our cart out
so he can encourage me to get pregnant. He says,
sometimes you go to sleep at night and then wake up pregnant.
Sometimes we have met somewhere in two separate
cars and we must drive home separately so I cannot
keep telling you what I heard on the radio. And anyway,
we hear new things. Your body moves through the world
and my body moves through an entirely different
world, though we can see each other mostly the entire time.