A Room of Frozen Dust

I meet you in Scarborough, cool and pale in your black dress. Your eyes walk straight through me, avoiding the part that hurts. We take the street to the docks where all is a shifting curtain

of smoke and mist, gray on gray, ghostly forms on an anthracite sea.

Ice spiders come with the fog. They spin pale cobwebs over the street lamps, lambent rainbows dancing on frosted glass. Later we cover the window with my leather coat. You light the long wicked candle so the flame burns high.and hold my hand over it, laughing when I pull away.

You tell me how your dreams are all mashed up inside. Fix it, say your fingers when they come to free my belt. I touch your hair with a whisper, “Nothing is irrevocable.”

I wake to a room of frozen dust, a faded message in a silver cup. Carry a question long enough, and when you stop caring, the answer comes. 

∼ Marge Simon

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