Catherine Pond

A lamp swings from a hook. Little rosettes
shine in the rain. I've done to men what she does to me,

but I do not tell her so. Instead, I run my fingers under
the metallic silver string which vanishes like a star

into her dark skirt. I stroke the soft blonde hair,
pink in the light, silhouetted by tufts of frangipani

lining the bar. Once, I lived in a country
full of these flowers, where the old women boiled milk

and water on the street and spoke of desire
in a language I did not understand. I lived there

in a small room by the sea. Outside my window,
fruit dangled from a screw pine. It was beautiful

but I was afraid; I never opened the glass.

It hurts, this cold,  
clinking in air, brittle as
my sister. Ice grinds

the beveled lips.
Wide-rimmed, the glassy

bole reflects the sky.
Who is there to tell  
to leave this one ornament

unscathed. Under roll cloud,
under shelf cloud,
she is the sole submersible.

My little sap-ache,
brimming with cumuli.