Two Winters
BY NATALIE DUNN
It’s surprising you’ve never been with a woman,
I said to her just as the lake revealed itself
in the window. It was frozen over,
a field of snow.
The night we kissed against the wall
it was winter again. I see more clearly
in these months, she told me,
her house full of slush and ruined pine.
There are many versions of me:
one that likes to be tied up with intricate knots,
another that can’t stand to be touched.
I try not to create likeness of her, attach her to beautiful things.
The time we walked around a false lake
I imagined slipping in,
being forgotten or remembered, not knowing
the difference.
The men we love walked in front of us,
she pointed to a heron that stood
at the edge of the water. I pretended to see it.
I keep trying to see it.
I Would Be a Selfish Mother
BY NATALIE DUNN
In a dream it was simple: I had many dark haired
children and I had them in water. It wasn’t a question
of what I would lose. Some things are sure: moss
grows north on trees, snow’s quick ruin. I’ve spent my life
saying yes, apologizing to strangers over nothing. Once
I lived in a place whose language was made of shapes
I did not know. In the morning I walked through a field of wheat
that scratched my hips. At night I placed a stack of coins under my bed
to spend on tea on paper on water spinach. I barely ever spoke,
gesturing like a wind-caught bird. I was happy there.
