“Ok, but you haven’t seen the last of me”
I wake up somewhere in Ohio. Or, that’s how it smells—
There’s a phone in my hand. I’m thirty years old.
No, the phone is thirty years old. Its memory’s been erased.
I’m naked but for one of those hollowed scarves.
It keeps peeling off like a seedpod.
I’m afraid my sense will fall out,
get lost in the snow and make more of me.
Up ahead, I think, there’s a covered bridge.
I remember her eyes, but not her name:
two busts of dead composers, ivory in very cold water.
Her name touches my lungs like the edge of a plate. Hypothermia.
Sault Ste. Marie up ahead. I climb a tree and look into the future.
A hope chest full of nuts, rats in a burrow. Her body banked against mine,
an obsolete piece of machinery I keep for some reason:
such hair and nails, an eiderdown coat—
|past simple home|