Ice in my hands by Lisa Zaran
I spoke for three hundred years
trying to make you understand.
You remained a derivative
of zero.
No expression. No sorrow.
I spoke some more. My words flew
like a gazelle, over and under
your rocky hills.
It’s like a madhouse in here, you said,
plugging your ears.
My body spoke its tempo. Limbs curled,
attitude soul-less with negotiation. Still.
Where shamans speak of music, faith, deliverance
you and I are only skimming surfaces.
Like cups compared to oceans.
Spoons compared to floods.
The face of sunlight carries us along.
The exploration of moonlight
begs us down to sleep.
I dream and in my dreams I search
for the evidence of love
even if that love comes small as a button
on my bedtime dress.
If the story was marriage, if the story was
sacrifice, bodies clamoring
to be together, guided and shining-
yours moonlight, mine a lake,
love reflecting off my skin like gemstones.
Talk about separation.
I can’t remember the last time we spoke
of love or when desire changed its occupation.
I am sick, God damn it, of your mossy
tongue and quiet lips and covered ears
and careless hands dying in the dark pockets
of your coat instead of holding mine.
I don’t want your heart to be the place
I bury my shoes while you bypass mine
and walk on.
