You told me you dreamed of me
When you’d showed me a dress
you’d thought I ought to wear,
I’d thought of Sylvia Plath’s “Munich Mannequins”
and memorised the number for Human Resources.
You tell me, even though I’m not really listening,
that in your dream I’m wearing floaty florals
(something I’d never choose.)
We’re discussing poetry.
(I’m ignoring your monologue.)
Somehow I sit on your lap, spilling flowers.
A kiss is involved. You tell me
I’ve got nothing to worry about.
My stomach slushes like snow
stamped on by muddy footprints.
I plan my daily routine so I am never
in an office area alone with you.
My voice has melted.
What I want to say is frozen in thin air.