E.C.

i will not use your name
or call you mine:

the screeching of your mother's bones
beneath the thick air
of my bedroom
reminds me of my apparition
over her, where i once
heard her shower, washing
herself of the dapper visions
of her triumphs
and still you

i live above her as you do
keeping her swift
and dear, keeping her hands up
and her feet firm
on the ground - moreso
than mine, which always
slip in this blaze of
winter snow
and clean blood

i remember you though how
can one remember what one
does not know? - i see your name
(which i will not say)
as i see you unfold - and i
must admit: though pretty, your
name is too northeast
for me

i think of you swimming, first
in a hot tub laced with
bubbly in celebration
of pumping, but then you dove
into icy rapids, you were
swirling, dreaming not of the
warmth but only the cold
where you run the fastest

never before had i dreamed
of a name - not yours -
and now i ask you to lend
me your middle so your mother
and i
can begin something more South more
West, more more foreign than your
chateau

now take your things
and continue to lurk above;
you are welcome to see who will
fill it next

thank you for keeping it warm for her