Hydrophobia

Cornflowers fringe the river like lashes. 
I am lonely, you concede. Leaves  

adhere to your back in mottled tongues; 
air articulates your face with odor of roasted  

apples, evening’s end. In second-story windows, 
girls in fine coal dresses undress, scrim of their slips  

lemon light: thin as a bone-button that unfastens 
the sky. Blue door on a black house, your body  

like glass: a pitcher of violets, twilight, a blue fruit 
abandoned. An ice skate floats by on the river’s ear.  

Do you hear the current’s assembly: a comb, 
a greenfinch, plastic lids, an index finger, a fishing  

lure, a mirror fragment containing the tumult of water 
and bodies. Listen to the river’s hiss; metal swallows  

clip the air. Hunters in bright orange vests 
approach you as though you were a ghost deer. 

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Your pretty white dress 
 
Hey ladybird lurking,
what's a fuzzy to you 

and a fizzy to him?
Calligraphy or filigree 

on the shield of a Viking.
He's aloof as a sawtooth. 

He can't yodel or sing.
He's a killer Godzilla, 

a teapot signaling steam.
A telltale heart, a deadly dart. 

It's a Harlequin romance,
a dizzy and a doozy of a dance.  
 

He's a dense lens, a frigate 
on a frozen ocean. 

You're a whirl of a girl, pearl 
and vertigo, marbled star. 

He's a conversation in the dark 
ardor of a parked car, 
 
smelling of mint and gin 
in a seaside citadel 
 
gliding down your pretty 
white dress with a pen. 
 

First published in Indiana Review