Sandra Hoben
BOTTICELLI
My heels, in their mummy bag,
try to dig into the slope. At dawn
the cliffs and valleys below open
like a crumpled piece of paper
thrown in the fire.
I find you by the lake.
In
the water, the sun
spirals around your shadow, like the underside
of a chanterelle mushroom.
I dive in
and swim as far as I can.
* * *
A circle of braided rugs, afternoon light
tunneling through the trees .
I walk up to the fire
where you sit, sipping coffee ,
and ask:
Did you eyer want
someone 's firstborn?
Did your lov(tr
wish you cut up
into stars?
Are you fictional?
You
admit that you are .
* * *
