There is no easy time to do this; it is always too cold.
You are a wrecked expanse, spread thin, limbs out
and covering every bed-sheet stain, fabric bundled
in the bend of each finger, face bundled
in the wring of each kiss.
I dive then, low and mask-less
to knock a wearied fist against
a door (winged like a Rorschach)
without a lock, but I knock
and knock again sinfully holding my breath.
I came for nothing else; I breathe faster.
I trace the maps, the wreaths that spiralled out
to mask its own stories, darken the ice,
hide the soft decay of soil
and I feel your cold, cradled in,
balled like a doorknob
and I knock again, and it opens to a mirror,
that bloodied image of myself
with different hair and voice and size
but too much me.
Nothing here remains; I leave no mark.
Until I surface, I search,
Dredging up the mud whites of dead snow
searching searching the fallow
for the smallest green bud of Spring,
the limpest sprig in a case of white
until I surface, red in the face,
wishing for warmth but saying nothing.
I left no mark; nothing here remains.
