Dress Rehearsal – Christine Hamm
Someone calling, Mira, Mira, not so close.
A white lake. Something frozen, stepping
on something frozen and uneven. The seagulls
clatter, pull the clouds into filaments. The moon,
a lopsided mouth, enters your body and you
drown again. Last time I held you, your breath
like wet dishrags and worms. A house hidden
under a painted sheet. The fire doesn't help you.
In that tank top with the ducks across, holding
yourself, shivering, not looking at me. The lake
jumps up and away. Birches are falling around
your library: snow falls, but no one listens.
You hum as you stomp your naked feet. The fire
doesn't help. You say your house is burning,
I say mine is sinking, even now.