my dream

MY DREAM

I see you like this:

cupping

a small, warm field mouse—

barely a heartbeat,

its fur damp with your breath—

you press it

into the hollow

of your neck,

where your hair curves

inward

and your fingers

know how to wait.

It’s cold outside.

Your breath

drifts slow

into the snow-light,

breaking into

small clouds

that carry your voice—

soft syllables

the air can keep.

Later,

if mist clings

to the broken rows of last year’s field,

and the frost breathes

its familiar lie—

all is hunger,

all is gone—

you’ll still be there,

barely moving,

but warm.

This is only a dream.

But in it

I am helpless,

folded into your scent,

curled

where the mouse had been.

SCOTT SIMPSON