She turns as I sleep, arms
trembling in colors blue and wide,
bones that drift beneath stars, snow.
Consider the dream: a river
mapped from one leg to the next.
Consider the mouth: fields frozen
beyond the window of a train.
I call her Juniper. I call for help.
The weather pushes against us.
Ice climbs through branches
and streets no longer wake.
A cathedral remains standing.
Consider her born. Consider
each river a name. Consider
the mornings I walked the path
alone. My body, her captor—
and somewhere, the fog rising,
the ground refusing to let us go.