Who Died and Made You Our Foreigner?
A horse clomping by and a cell phone's
Across the tundra earth
a shy city slowly advances.
As always the upstairs spirits of the Danish sisters
take their time coming down,
navigating behind the precarious balance
of their breasts, quasi-content
as buds of ink. Here, please be
a pair of astronautical asterisks,
or, alright, this indwelling of snowfall. I hear
its awkward down-shift of gears.
I catch its whiff of oblivion.
A nod to stoic ice, to the backwards-streaming stars,
as from our old Singer a scarlet gown
flows out. I am so very me
in you: invisible seams,
Calls out of time. Hooves kick up loose cobbles.
In the aunts' old mirror over my dresser familiar frowns,
torrents and tidepools, I wade in.
Camphor, mustard plasters, dark clots on the X-ray.
Recall, won't you, my hand
with the dropper descending: three drops
and goodnight, six and so long.