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,
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.