With a Glance at the Equator
If I am a world then the climate
is rapidly changing.
Gone now is the dodo,
gone druids, unicorns.
My coats tire of warning away
the full fire of the cosmos.
Through patches and holes
I am singed and boiled.
One of these days I will face
the sinking sun himself.
Continents drift without my permission.
There are tracks in the sea;
the great plates ride
on sandy rails
of unknown origin.
Who is he, this engineer who charts
where my heart will settle?
Icebergs bob like battleships
atop the warming ocean. Their sheer
hulls melt : cool water swells
to wash my white-hot belly.
He looked her blue in the eyes, searching,
and told her he loved her. She murmured
indistinctly, dreamed not of his flushed cheeks
or his wheat-field eyelashes,
but of ripe plums.
In the biting January wind, in the heartless
blinding sun off the harbor waters,
her mind retreated to the surrendering depth
just beyond the plum’s taut, tangy skin.
His hot hand reached for hers.
She longed for the shady release
of cool juice on her lips, the curving weight
of black fruit in her hand.