Rosemarie Dombrowski

There's a blip inside my chest, almost
nausea, and I'm thinking of you at nine
but also the snow-globe that after years of
repeated agitation has begun to grow barnacles
made of un-snow that make it look
like a sunken ship even though it's really
only a sleigh and two reindeer.

Then, blip, there you are:

pulling on the reigns that
connect to the bit in my mouth,
chafing the corners of my lips as I
prance along in the animal pelt that
disguises this human psyche,
remembers watching this scene but
not being trapped inside of it,
spherical and clear.

By ten p.m. it's like a wave, and the
nausea of agitation
whips me into reality until I'm
plunging into the sunken ship,
asphyxiating in her abdominal cavity
(but only you could know what I mean).