i watched you stand so close to me
and saw you turn away,
your heart on your sleeve,
your voice stuck in your throat,
with nothing left but notes
rippling beneath imprisoned skin.

come on, now.
don’t you say you don’t want me.
i know it’s not true. i refuse to
believe it, ice sculpture of mine.

i will make a skating rink out
of you when you melt some day,
m’dear (but don’t act like
you didn’t know this would be
coming, okay?).

the sunshine of my soul
will soar atop your glaring eyes,
iris clear and ocean deep,
and you will want me more than
anything, but i’ll just laugh
and smile in solemn hilarity.

(as if the goddess sworn off men
would ever give herself to you
without getting something in return)

you will not be afraid of me,
i could never frighten anyone.
but you will be under my
feet, with my skates cracking your
beautiful skin into a spider web
of crisscrossing lines,
my gift to your silky, unbroken heart.

and then, suddenly, you will
vanish as if i had just performed
a magic trick, and i will laugh
again, my face wet with the
condensation rising from
a sudden puddle at my trembling toes.

i’ve always been clumsiest
with what i wanted most, dear.
and you’ll just have to deal with that,
while i sing the alphabet backwards,
to the tune of a lullaby (soft as
irish heather) that used
to put me to sleep every night
of a high fever.

but my temperature
is ninety eight point six now, honey,
and your ice rink
is skidding through my veins, replacing
my sweet, weak, blood with strong,
spit-out-bitter alcohol.

i will not let you burn me up.
so maybe i’ll just have to freeze
to death in my ice palace
far, far away from the equator.

sipping hot cocoa,
my ice skates still strapped to
my feet.

they will be a reminder of
what i used to be,
and who used to stay still beneath
my feet while i spun
(graceful for the first time in my life)
like a blond haired, blond eyed
planet.

(and you might as well have been the sun,
the way i revolved around you)