after Lorca’s “Romance Sonámbulo”

Ice, how I want her ice.
Ice cubes. Ice cream.
A thousand penguins in snow,
one octopus under ice.
The boss stares through glass at fog,
diamond eyes, pétillant lips,
ear lobes sparkling with ice.
Ice cubes, ice cream.
On my side of the walls,
melted people stare into screens.

Ice, how I want her ice.
Men dressed like penguins
march out platters of cubes
and pile them on a block of ice.
A polar bear plunges—rises,
a fish flapping between its jaws.
Who will light the fire?
She sits behind the walls,
diamond eyes, pétillant lips.

If only I could swap my vapor
for her diamonds, my s’more
for her salmon, my screen for
her view … Lava, lava,
I don’t know my own desire.
Only volcanoes and suns have no ice.

Kenton, your laces again.

Corkscrews and gum. The boss just left.
Let’s go look through her panes.
Let’s see those penguins
on the ice over the octopus.

Ice, how I want her ice.
Ice cubes, ice stains
lead us inside. Outside the glass
volcanoes spew orange-red embers
and mushroom clouds rain piglets
pelting the penguins in curlicues.
Out of sight beneath the ice,
the octopus is a semiconductor chip—
one icy eyeball atop eight icicles
soldered into the sea floor.
Ice, how I want her ice.
Ice cubes, I scream, I want more s’mores.
Eight thousand penguins in snow,
one octopus under ice.