You walk to the river—
maybe it is snowing heavily,
you only have yarn mittens,
thin and holey. You look
at the steely surface eating the flakes,
the other shore veiled, lost.
Should there not be a boat,
a boatman? Or you lie in the dark,
breathing only from your forehead,
violet light begins to undulate,
and your forehead breaks open
just a fissure, under which
a spiral spinning. You get so
far. Then you are forced back,
by numb fingers perhaps.
The boatman denies you.
Violet recedes. You have to attend
to things. Make a spreadsheet.
Make coffee. Clean the fish tank.
Rosalynde Vas Dias’ work has appeared previously in The Cincinnati Review, Crazyhorse, West Branch, and elsewhere. Her first book, Only Blue Body, was awarded the 2011 Robert Dana Prize by Anhinga Press.