the places that are cold in this world, then,
are the strongest, and the most beautiful.
in russia the foxes bound across ice, the moon
is a stark circle in the bleak black sky.
in antarctica there is nothing. in blue, and white,
and grey and black the landscape is painted
by a deity with an angry, quick hand.
the curves of my body, long and quiet, held
together by the stark white skin, are nothing
compared to the works of your hands.
i have learned to be quick, learned to be silent,
learned to take and to give and to watch
but the blood now runs in greyscale,
and i have nothing left to give. the hands
are the most important scene: mine shake.
but, in having learned to be cold and full,
they shake less for stress than some inner ache
a silent heart that cannot beat and will not speak.
each day another minute chapter in a simple life,
whether i am waiting or working or wasting.
in russia the tiny green sprouts push up
against the ice floes, the microbacterial life
thrives inside the frozen water. in antarctica
there is nothing warm-blooded, there is nothing
frolicking on the bergs that drift slowly
towards the equators. and if, days later,
i am seeking heat, i am seeking justification,
if weeks later i am seeking the depth of your hands,
who could blame me? for what you are.