Little Design

after Li-Young Lee

I painted my lover
on a lake.
Since then, the fish
bathe her every morning
and slide slippers on her
feet every night.

I painted my lover on a glacier.
Since then, my gloves
are always on,
and all the snow
has become a gallery
whose exhibits are the evenings,
whose plinths
stand unwavering. Sometimes
I tip them over
on purpose
for a chance to exhume the shards.

I painted my lover
under my sternum.
Now she courses through me,
strange ink, little calligraphy
stroke, brilliant well of pitch-black.

A vast constellation-free night
to dip the quill of a tongue into.