From bird wings
flattened on the storm window,
from icicles nested in honeycomb,
from frozen breath held in the lungs,
from waves solid in winter ponds.

You see that coin, that silver dollar
suspended in the ice rink?
I’ll get it for you
if it’s the last thing I do.

We chip at it with shovels
until the frozen layer
we’re standing on caves in.
You grab at my scarf, my shoulder:
I’ll hold you up, I tell you.
You won’t drown.
We trudge back through fields
of trampled rye grass,
unsettle a grid of nettles,
a snow veil over berry bushes.

Behind the chinchilla house,
behind the anchored plow wheel,
we make a fire with our fingers
touch the boy sweat ringed
under thermal clothing,
minutes freeze in the air as
we breathe in white cloud vapor
flying off each other’s tongues.

During the month of the thaw
you join the swim team,
where I stand fixated
at the sheen of new muscle
treading chlorinated water,
your lungs heaving out,
arms arched forward
for the trophy. I tell myself:
I won’t drown.

At home, in bed,
a transistor up to my ear,
I remind myself
this is where I come from:
from the place
where the wigged diva sings:
Macarthur’s park is melting in the dark.
That note at the end
sustained for so long.
How can she do it
without taking in another breath?
I’m pretending that it’s me
becoming invincible
in that stretched out note,
handing you that elusive silver dollar,
the blaze of rue and hollyhocks,
the first gust of April,
the sparrow broken on the sill,
coming alive with your heat.