Ice Child

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A reserved, perspiring animal. To have only

seen pictures of snow and I didn’t feel enough.

Failing melting tower in the aftermath of swamp.

I have wanted the pain of the hot river, to pull

my head to the water. I wanted the end to all thoughts.

I can pour out of myself. Wicked, bitter, blistered nymph.

If one day I would grow too hot and turn

to flood, and my neighbors would drink of me.

Wintery freak, supernatural infant, frozen

crone-child born blue; an ice pack to rest one’s

head on. Lunatic in summer, half-conscious

in spring. Tongue brewing under the shaking flowers

before the monsoon, this bitter ice daughter dreaming

in the shadows of the hurricanes.

Este origen lamentable, esta muñeca muerta.

At times to take on the shape of happiness,

maiden of the burning hair, crying out how hot

an island could be.

I too have loved someone and said nothing.

I too can dream in the forest, and the fire.

A boiling doll hiding inside the cellar,

singing odes to an overflowing world.

What you want may not be given to you again, again, again.