by Frances Leviston
Like a wet dream this snow-globe was a gift
to myself. It rides shotgun in the passenger seat
or stuck to the dashboard, swirling and swirling
across the carpet of potholes to my house.
Its mantelpiece matryoshka
wears an inscrutable face:
there's no telling how many dolls deep she goes
beyond her one red peanut-shell,
her pupa's lacquered shine,
superglued to a painted knoll, brilliantly magnified
by an atmosphere of cerebrospinal fluid
under the smooth glass dome's museum,
a solid case of ozone.
When I do a U-turn it triggers another storm.
Her compass boggles. Lie down there in that drift,
little girl, you're feeling strangely warm,
and something big is about to make sense
if we just keep going in the opposite direction.