Here is where our small hairs become stands
of rib cages cross-
sectioned and fraying gray matter.
It is in this space,
the white turns body to a point, blind.
When we lie
with each other in my skull and both of us know,
that in this vision it is my turn to fall through the brambles.
It is your turn
to write our names on the tip of a magpie’s wing.
the ink and the nib, the voice and its sound.
I will wire us
together from tooth to tooth, run a string through our ears.
Make a jaw
out of clouds and I will love you forever,
I want your breath to be your breath, to be something
in my hand,
to be in my pocket, to be in my mouth, my gray matter.
I tell you
I love the cold and the sight of your
Here is where you say: Look at my feet, they are
you are not the lake surface you said you were.
In this vision,
something forms on my spine and
it is not
frozen like your feet. Maybe it’s blood
let from your
center. I want, I want, I want a flap of your scalp
so I can say
this is what I have come here for and now it is.
My eyes are
yours, I swear. Again, this is my dream and things here
are real for us.
When I leave the room, I watch your neck break.
I watch your
veins boil and hiss. The radiators swell.
It is cold.
I want the cold inside me so I can freeze your body and dreams.
If you vanish,
I know that I have failed and this is what infinity feels.
Andrew Ruzkowski lives and writes in Chicago. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Columbia Poetry Review, The New Writer, Willows Wept Review, Black Tongue Review, analogpress.net, The Camel Saloon, and The Bakery, among others. He has been nominated for a 2012 Pushcart Prize and was a finalist for the 2012 Atlantis Award.