I am dreaming of a cracked tundra.
In my fever the rinds of earth were being peeled away
like rotted mango skins or an apricot,
new sands spilling upward like an erection
complete with catwalks of stone and musty ruins.
I am dreaming of a roman bare at the waist
what he has offered me beneath the grecian tunic,
his version of the hard truth, straightforward as a sundial;
and most days i ask
point me in the right direction.
show me again and again how to do away with the cold,
because it was all my fault, this shock of snow
that happened and could happen again,
the clouds are still there fixed like bayonets.
he and I are alone on this very private island, even though
i am one wife of many, and he asks me, again and again,
to rid myself of the fear that does not fit this hand
like a glove, the pot belly, the top hats,
these unfashionable scarves. I am filling up with one wish:
to step out of this skin which has been reduced
to the consistency of melting plaster,
to be hard and real, and singe my fingers
on a country i'd like to explore.

a/n: dedicated to a very special person :)