Aberdeen

I heard a noise last night and saw shifting light
shapes on the ceiling; auroura borealis.

Women here have cast away the betrayer, fashion.
In its stead are anonymous bubble shapes with hoods and heels and briefcases
the men go on as normal, in suits and ties but now with clenched hands.

My legs cramp at night from curling into tight balls.  I use his pillow to fortify my own.

Perhaps at the end of my waiting, waiting, waiting
there will be something to show for this.

Snow boots

I’ve got them handy and they, lined with fur inside, make love to my feet.

When walking I squelch them against the snow spitefully and test the ice to see

How good my boots can be.

And when I slip, a bit, my faith

In my indefatigable boots

suffers just a little, but then I am always

stomping things until I crush them.

Fire

I woke in the middle of the afternoon in summer, sweating in tropical island heat and hearing my mother clattering with a bucket outside, and the tap in the garden running and squeaking.  There was something else too; smoke and crackling, snapping noises.  Peek through the window and see the hillside in smoke and charred patches.  In the early months of the year the forests are hot and dry and fires spark from stones, leaves, anything.  My mother sees my head through the window, her voice is as clear as if she's in the room.

"Is the homeless man again, he was cooking by the river and the fire spread, the stupid man!  I call the fire brigade but they have no water source and the river dry up so you know they wouldn't come."  Through the haziness fire plumes flare up periodically; as I watch a branch collapses slowly, shuddering as it falls.  I knew that later this evening cars would run over a few manicous, lizards and other animals that fled the fire.  Because we lived on the opposite hill, separated by the river, our house wasn't in danger.  But I couldn't help thinking about the manicous.  I'd seen them at night, rats with long curly tails and beady eyes with their young strapped to their backs.  I thought about them perched in trees, waiting.  The fire burned well into the night.

I remember this because last night I dreamed the fire again, except it was I who was burning, clutching his back, my eyes little black balls of terror.  I burn like ice and looking down I see, in my dream, that we are perched on an oil platform above the northern sea and the wind is what sears us.  In my dream the sea roars itself into froth as we sit clinging to each other, waiting for our time.