Valerie Loveland


He found ways to get me to come over:
a non-religious statue that cried real blood,
a time machine in his basement, crazy with ticking and cuckoos.

Once, he had my childhood cat—
reanimated somehow;
a little dusty, but her old self: she remembered me.

These miracles always occur
at such queer hours—
a trick to keep me awake, so I call out sick tomorrow
and spend the day with him?

It always works.
I can't resist the perpetual sideshow in his living room.

Tonight his ceiling poured a gorgeous leak: a cerulean waterfall,
halted to an icy stalactite above his dinner table.

The electric-blue icicle sparkles, with help
from his neighbor—outside snapping
photos of this week's miracle.

At first I think counterfeit, synthetic.
I remember only white icicles dangle
from my overhang during winter.

I look for wires when he leaves the room.

He comes back with arms crowded with hats,
mittens, a sweater—all periwinkle—my favorite color.

I look at the sapphire cascade again and remember science,
glaciers, comets—
the solar system is full of blue ice.

Arctic clouds float from my mouth and nose,
but he looks flushed—sweat dots
his forehead as if he carved the ice himself.

Valerie Loveland lives in Austin Texas and is currently playing the video game Dreamfall.

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