Ice in my hands by Lisa Zaran

I spoke for three hundred years

trying to make you understand.

You remained a derivative

of zero.

No expression. No sorrow.

I spoke some more. My words flew

like a gazelle, over and under

your rocky hills.

It’s like a madhouse in here, you said,

plugging your ears.

My body spoke its tempo. Limbs curled,

attitude soul-less with negotiation. Still.

Where shamans speak of music, faith, deliverance

you and I are only skimming surfaces.

Like cups compared to oceans.

Spoons compared to floods.

The face of sunlight carries us along.

The exploration of moonlight

begs us down to sleep.

I dream and in my dreams I search

for the evidence of love

even if that love comes small as a button

on my bedtime dress.

If the story was marriage, if the story was

sacrifice, bodies clamoring

to be together, guided and shining-

yours moonlight, mine a lake,

love reflecting off my skin like gemstones.

Talk about separation.

I can’t remember the last time we spoke

of love or when desire changed its occupation.

I am sick, God damn it, of your mossy

tongue and quiet lips and covered ears

and careless hands dying in the dark pockets

of your coat instead of holding mine.

I don’t want your heart to be the place

I bury my shoes while you bypass mine

and walk on.

Lisa Zaran is an American poet, essayist and author of six collections. Current work can be found or is upcoming in A Little Poetry, Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k), Juked and the anthology Not A Muse. She is the founder and editor of Contemporary American Voices.