Phases

　　 by Michael Redhill

　　 Ich glaube an N？chte

　　 Watching the garden winter under the moon，we think of the brown animals under the earth. Or the bulbs of the jonquils frozen there with their orange eyes clenched in coils.

　　 White and silent night， the air cold as iron and the lake like an old woman under a blanket.

　　 We gave your grandma marijuana tea to lull the cancer clenched in her like fists.

　　 Our legs are weak after making love but we walk across the solid lake.

　　 We're wrapped in the husk of a Bay blanket，the air smells like wool and our heat billows around us， animal. The lake clicks as we walk， a photograph curling up at the edges. Far under hibernating fish drift in the current，their bodies curving back and forth，while above them the moon glows on the snowless patches--a white heart expanding under the ice.

　　 And in our blanket， our bodies hold the shapes of the people whose cells we slept in for generations.

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