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Jennifer Dick 
In the fall perhaps a dream hand rested, called out my wanting to the mattress. Back dreaming of dark. Her voice the edge of where time was on my doorknob. Named her for touch. On my floor Zinnaida Gippius. Hurt. I held something reversed--her and her voice. Once I answered: "Pull her into where I lay Tsvetaeva." Just taste all married now. Her garden a belt of man and the pregnancy. Weeds water-careful, her name in that foreignness. The small grows tight chastity--only body breaking, roots not to spill in my mouth. But she has squared about her like men, this only against her thin soil. Then one drop.
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