negative six degrees

a cupped palm, a turn of hair:
i watch as the waves freeze solid

a few feet from shore. they rise
up just to hold still. a swallowed

breath. the memory of a jump 
held by water. what do we do

if the water in our bodies 
becomes motionless. statues; 

where is medusa? a head full of
winter, a skull dripping icicle.

the ocean knows when to stop,
when to give into temperature

& write another life. this is
my chance to walk over waves.

what kind of man trusts 
the ocean to stay frozen beneath

him? great tongues of blue, great
salt & salt. mermaid with me,

scales of water. a kelp curtain
clitoris where the whole atlantic 

pauses before entrance. the pipes
of the house become waves too

silent & un-cracking. they tell
stories of movement & of rushing,

all the rushing & surge. a hand 
in the water. a hot faucet spitting

song. i pour myself a bath but
the water lays down still. a dead

dog. getting in the bath i imagine you 
finding me, not me but a peak 

of water. creased & seashell-hearted
& blood turned to pipes turned 

to wave. don't try to warm me.
pick me up & exhibit me. take pictures

& amble over each crest of body.
someday we will have an ocean again.

what is a lover but a frozen 
ocean to try & thaw & thaw.

a dead dog. nothing to make 
a handful of. in the streets there

are thousands of people becoming
statues. where do they go?

a throw from the water, we should
start calling everyone a body of salt.

i say through the ice: it's not
our fault it's not our fault 

but it is. the house gulps. 
we are warm & the light in the kitchen

is waiting with a bath drawn.