Black Milk

I hungered for your voice

to break.

I was zipped up,

half me and

half me. You were the third half.

What has melted us?

I remember

the crackling ice I walked on

with bare feet, impossible

rockets of cold parading up my legs,

the lick of blue sky above and

the ocean of snow.

I’ve lost my frozen lake.

I dance on a summer ground.

It’s like trying to remember numb hands

in the middle of summer.

If I stood in front of your house

and your living room window shades were drawn up,

maybe I’d see you bending low and

cooing,

a smile that

hadn’t been invented til she was born

dancing on your face,

the world outside your window

cold and useless

when everything you need

is bathed in warm yellow light.

If you

tried to burn yourself alive

but were saved

you’d still

have the disfiguration slathered across your face

for the rest of your life.

It’s just like that.

Our spider strings.

Our

shimmering,

gauzy,

tangled,

stretching

web—

Eclipsed.

Clogged soul.

Black milk.

If only it would snow again.