Somewhere along the line,
the big zero of time was twisted
at the waist to become an eight.
An hourglass of days, slipping slow
from the top, then fast below the belt.
Is it providence, or a lemniscate of fate?
I like to think of myself as a verb
and not the object. Chop-chop!
I wait the hours. I empty my head of winter.
I am frightened by other people’s fears,
but not of the eight, not of the hourglass of days.
It started like a guilty thing.
I won’t pretend it was accidental.
He turned and I was lost.
Frost knit his eyebrows,
my lashes. We spit in the gorge
for luck; it landed broadside
on stones and ice. His people
are big spitters; they spit for fate,
mine spit for hate. This was no
dicey romance; what happened
to me, happened to him.
Angels have a way of knowing
things; they spit an avalanche
the day he kissed me in the snow.
Take me fast, quiet,
two guards at every door.
Wrap me tight in your extravagant
straitjacket where the strangling
is clean and silent, since when I kiss,
it will not be as a sister.
You have seen my complete dossier;
I would have made a great man,
but I am a woman, subtle,
but effective. Do not toss
me, deranged, in your landfill.
It is more palatable to give me
something rich and strange,
tribal, like a Viking funeral.