Don’t give up. I am trying. Inside this overgrown refrigerator the Americans call Alaska, I am trying to learn
to sing Mozart cantatas to make their dung beetles dance, like you and I danced at graduation, my hand on the open back of your dress.
I am trying to learn to open
my mouth to kiss the hyperphagic bears, frozen whiter than the taste of inside-out coconut skulls, like the ones you stole from the market and dropped down the stairwell at school. When I’m hungry, I practice sticking out my tongue
dialing my mouth back down those stairs, and licking the milky juice as it oozes to the bottom.
I practice sucking it back up to the high peaks, humming eine kleine nachtmusik.
And pretending I can slide back down across the water to you.