and what am I

and what am I what can I who am I today of all days
is it real is it important my aunt
the far flung out siberian shaman
is wishing hell and death on me these days
her favorite medicines her favorite medications
sending me a dream of snow
or perhaps it is a dream of the arctic circle
I really don't know and can't say so much like her
and all her victorian secfrets rituals and ceremonies
my cigarettes taste like her turpentine today
although there is none in the house
now is the landlord painting
so I know she has gone back to her art
the heart of the matter lies burned and hidden and landlocked
between and beneath layers and layers of sheet ice
or sheath ice left over from the time of dinosaurs
and world wide glacier expansion
she really does go that far back and so do I