Union, and: Horizon

Union

after Andre Breton

My husband whose hair is eiderdown feathering cliff nestswhose thoughts are galaxies revolving farther & farther awaywhose waist is the trunk of an aspenwhose waist is the waist of a cricket singing not seeing the waspwhose mouth is a tulip frozen in May snowwhose teeth leave prints like the tracks of mice over that snowwhose tongue is made of daguerreotypes & ornithopterswhose tongue is made of clear ginthe tongue of mannequin whose eyes never shutwhose tongue is a dream of a whisper of a kissMy husband whose eyelashes are these words on the page whose eyebrows are the bridge at Avignon, the landbridge from Asia,the half rainbow that never touches the earthwhose temples are the windows of a schoolhouse steamed by our breathwhose shoulders are tables set & ready for companyare shelves in the library full of books no one reads anymore but he loveswhose wrists are roots buckling the foundationwhose fingers are silver dollars pulled from my earwhose aissellesare mere armpitsbut are still where I nest like a house swallow on long summer nightsMy husband whose arms are made of sea sand marooned on this vast inland plainare a fusion of meat & the knifewhose legs are pistons in the brute movementof steam engines & happinesswhose calves are strong as shiplapwhose legs are theodolites measuring the earth with each strideare skeleton keys, are FBI agents under J. Edgar HooverMy husband whose neck is Sechssamttropfen, those six velvet dropswhose throat contains the Valley of the Kings& encounters in the bed of the oceanwhere lives the fish who swallowed both Jonah & Geppetto's puppetwhose chest is the sea at nightis a Persian rug warming the marble floor of our imaginary palacewhose chest is haunted by the rhythm of ghosts breathingof ghosts wanting what we have, wanting him backwhose belly is a curtain whipping in the moonlightis a whirlpool in which all the world is drownedMy husband with the back of a river porpoise arched above the water with a back of glove leather & silk aviator scarveswhose nape is satin conch shell & oyster on the tongue& an iced tea glass slipping through sweating fingers even as I drinkMy husband with thighs like an oak handrail polished by touchwith thighs feathered like shuttlecocksgloriously & imperceptibly balancedMy husband with the sex of a forest mushroom, a horehound candy, a spyglass,an atlatl, a platypusMy husband with the sex of a diving poolMy husband with eyes mirrored with tearswith eyes that are black ice & magnetic compasseswith eyes full of arctic oceanwith eyes full of meltwater to drink in the desertMy husband with eyes that are rain forests burningMy husband with eyes that are equal parts fresh water& salt-all my body needs for love in this life

Horizon

You ask me to imagine the arctic has come into my roomthe white sand beach has disappeared& frostbite clings to my fingersThe house is turning into an ice breakerthe sound of an iceberg calving has just reached me up hereIn two days, we will arrive at the poleAlready we've passed the Florida-Canada borderI know there must be ice mountains & sheer cliffs aheadbut palm trees outside hide the Northern lights behind sweeping green fansNight falls drop by wet dropI wait with you for hours

Give me that beer & the last cigaretteI am going back to Miami I am going to bed