III

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i fed the ice of my region

I FED THE ICE OF MY REGION
to your telephone all winter.

hunched statue, tongue thick with silt:
my heart is and is buoyant under
a flap of my skin. your voice a plume
over my head, skull helmet.

metal receiver to a metal tongue:
from far away you tell me that
The Moving World belongs to me.
you tell me what you would do to my thin arms

do to my tongue, my winded corset,
flat pink roses if i were in Your Bedroom.

the sky is stretched like a brown
strand of hair taped between
a door frame and a door:
suspicious and sacrificial.

taut, the sky is an axe: mythically large,
and under its expanse, i feel wooden.

a ticking begins somewhere
in my sternum. your voice
dissipates and whitens.
i remember that it is never really

winter where you are, southern-state.
fucking forty degrees, your ice drips

on my shoulders, axe in the eye,
to the line where the buildings huddle
and melt into the on-ramp. the horizon
is most clear where it vanishes.

olivia ann