Today as I am lifting Italian ice to my lips,
like I do on Saturday afternoons like this,
I think of all things frozen in ice.
I am staring across the table
at your nose,
sifting through election results,
the state of the American economic crises, poverty,
life-long sentences,
and your eyes, which are
big and speckled and now
staring back at open my mouth,
is ready to receive its frozen corn-syrup dessert.
From behind the paper,
your mouth tells me again
how much in love you are
with my teeth.

I stare down at this snow-pile,
stacked high atop my teaspoon,
and consider signing up for a certificated class,
one that might teach me about cryogenics,
the miracles of science, preservation —
a class where I might learn the origins
of your inexorable kindness.


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