Your neckline, like a glacier
among the ice-slopes of your skin, displays
that it’s cold under the surface. Often
you look at me. I don’t mind. A waning
moon is your soul, the sickle thinning
until new moon. Some women, I’m saying
this offstage, have between their fingers
a web of ice, these are watery creatures.

Now tell me, when I get home would you help me off
with my coat, putting on the rack whatever
can be stuffed on a hanger of a day, saying
perhaps, I missed you, like someone
who drops a cube of ice in the crystal glass
and offers the treat clinking. Your pearly nails
would never reach to the dish—
I like the one who
dreams frost on my sight when she doesn’t even
look me in the eye, gazing at the mirror,
on her own light, forever skating.